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GEMS 

FROM * THE 

POETS 



CONTAINING SELECTIONS FROM THE- WRITINGS 
OF HOMER, MILTON, SHAKSPERE, SCOTT, BURNS, 
BYRON, LONGFELLOW, WHITTIER, TENNYSON, 
LOWELL, AND MANY OTHER FAMOUS POETS. 



EDITED BY 



HAZLITT ALVA CUPPY, M.A., Ph.D. 




&?: 



^ 



PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED. 



NEW YORK CITY 

Times Building. 



PUBLISHED BY 

MAST, CEOWELL & KIRKPATRICK, 

CHICAGO, ILL. 

Monadnock Block. 
1894. 



SPRINGFIELD, 
Ouio. 






! t. 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



,-iTENRY WADSWORTH LONGFEEEOW was born in Portland, Maine, February 27, 

V® 1807. He was graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825. Afterward he studied and 

traveled abroad, returning to enter upon his duties as a professor in his Alma Mater. 

From 1836 to 1854 he held a professorship in Harvard University. He was twice married; in 

1831 to Mary Storer Potter, of Portland, who died four years later. 1843 he married Francis 

Elizabeth Appleton, of Boston. March 24, 1882, he died, leaving two sons and three daughters. 

Eongfellow has been honored above all his contemporaries. He was honored by degrees 

from Harvard, Cambridge and Oxford Universities. His bust has been placed in the poets' 

corner in Westminster Abbey. His "Evangeline," "The Song of Hiawatha," and "The 

Courtship of Miles Standish," are known throughout the English-speaking world. 




By Way of Introduction. 



THERE is something of poetry born in us each, 
A Though in many, perhaps, it is born without speech- 
An existence but dumb and uncertain, that strives 
For expression in vain through the whole of their lives. 
That is glad when the spring wears its beautiful smiles, 
And is sad when all nature to tears would beguile ; 



That can weep with the world in its woe of to-day, 
And to-morrow take part in its merriest play. 

* * * * 

That can feel, and can be, yet can never express 
All the feeling and being its life may possess." 



BOETRY, music and art are three golden links binding 
our higher natures to the Divine. 

JTCHE starry firmament forms a picture so perfectly 
X. artistic that it could not be other than the 
embodiment of an infinite conception. 

JTCHERE is music, too, in the fascinating rhythm of the 
X, movements of the planets and in the silent harmonies 
of the myriads of stars as they step out on parade, 
night after night. 

KND the vaulted heavens, bedecked with scintillating 
J- * points — studded with clusters of brilliants, are but 
the fruition of a magnificent poetical idea. 

TZ ND so the best that is in us always responds to that 
j *■ which truly belongs to the artistic, the poetical or the 
musical, for such appeals to the heart. 

JJIHESE gems from the poets are often but the 
X expression of the unexpressed in each of us. 
They therefore belong to humanity, and will, it is hoped, 
find a responsive chord in every heart. 



"CIER the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, 

\, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you." 



HAZUTT AEVA CUPPY. 



EDITORIAL ROOMS 

THE ALTRUISTIC REVTEW, 
CHICAGO, ILL. 




"" 



_— 




*uhi t» 




ft-E.ly 



AUTUMN. 



NIGHT. 



fHE autumn is old; 
The sear leaves are flying; 
He hath gathered up gold, 
And now he is dying: 
Old age, begin sighing! 

The vintage is ripe; 
The harvest is heaping; 
But some that hath sowed 
Have no riches for reaping: 
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping? 

The year's in the wane; 
There is nothing adorning; 
The night has no eve, 
And the day has no morning; 
Cold winter gives warning. 

The rivers run chill; 
The red sun is sinking; 
And I am grown old, 
And life is fast shrinking; 
Here's enow for sad thinking! 

Thomas Hood. 



cSh[OW beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh 
j$S Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's 

ear 
Were discord to the speaking quietude 
That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon 

vault, 
Studded with stars unutterably bright, 
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur 

rolls, 
Seems like a canopy which love has spread 
To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills, 
Robed in a garment of untrodden snow; 
Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, 
So stainless that their white and glittering spires 
Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castle steep,. 
Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower 
So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it 
A metaphor of peace — all form a scene 
Where musing solitude might love to lift 
Her soul above this sphere of earthliness; 
Where silence undisturbed might watch alone, 
So cold, so bright, so still. 

The orb of day 
In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless field 



THE ASCENSION OF CHRIST. 



ijTHJRIGHT portals of the sky, 

<2A$b Embossed with sparkling stars; 

Doors of eternity, 
With diamantine bars, 
Your arras rich uphold; 
Loose all your bolts and springs, 
Ope wide your leaves of gold; 
jThat in your roofs may come the King of kings 

" Scarfed in a rosy cloud, 
He doth ascend the air; 
Straight doth the Moon him shroud 
"With her resplendent hair; 
The next encrystalled light 
Submits to him its beams; 
And he doth trace the height 
.Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty 
streams. 




The choirs of happy souls, 
Waked with that music sweet, 
Whose descant care controls, 
Their Lord in triumph meet; 
The spotless spirits of light 
His trophies do extol, 
And, arched in squadrons bright, 
•Greet their great victor in his capitol. 



" O glory of the Heaven ! 

O soul delight of Earth ! ' 

To thee all power be given, 

God's uncreated birth; 

Of mankind lover true, 

Endurer of his wrong, 

Who dost the world renew, 
Still be thou our salvation, and our song." 
From top of Olivet such notes did rise, 
When man's Redeemer did transcend the skies. 
William Dkujimond. 




SPIRITS OF THE STORM. 



■AEXOLL, thunders, roll! 
(■£«; On the cold mist of the night, 
cr 3 ^ As I watch the streaming light, 
Lurid blinking in the south, 
Like a mighty serpent's mouth 

Spitting fire. 
Peal on peal, the thunder's crashing, 
And the streaming lightning's flashing, 
Like great giants coming o'er us, 
Dancing to the distaut chorus, 
In their ire, 

Sowing fire, 
From the wild sky higher, higher, 
While the heaving, angry motion. 
Of a great aerial ocean, 
Dashes cloud-built ships asunder, 
As the distant coming thunder 

Rolls, rolls, rolls, 
And shakes the great earth to the poles. 

Roll, thunders, roll ! 
You wake my sleeping soul, 
To see the war in rage before me, 
And its dreadful menace o'er me, 

Lightning, 

Brightening, 
Flashing, 

Dashing; 
Thunders booming in the distance, 
Till the earth seems in resistance 

To the navies sailing higher, 

O'er the wild clouds dropping fire ; 
And there he comes! the wing'd horse comes, 

Beneath great Jove whose mighty arms 
Hurl thunder-bolts, and heaven drums 

Her awful roll of sad alarms : 
He stamps the clouds, and onward prances; 
As from him the wild lightning glances; 

By his neigh the world is shaken, 
And his hoof so fleetly dances 

That the lightning's overtaken, 

And he feeds upon its blazing 
Shafts, as if he were but grazing ; 
Stops, paws the clouds beneath his form, 
Then gallops o'er the raging storm ; 
Flies on! his long, disheveled mane 
Streams wildly through the leaden plane 

Of the dull skies, 
The while the drapery of the clouds 
Wraps this spirit as in shrouds, 

Our darting eyes 

In vague surprise 

Arise, 
And trace the wandering course 
Of heaven's fleet-foot winged horse! 

Roll, thunders, roll ! 
As lightnings in the arching scroll, 
Streak the heavens in their flight 
By their dazzling flow of light: 
While old Neptune, all alone, 
Is sitting on his mountain throne, 



O'er the sea, 
In a mood so lonely, he 
Thrusts his trident by his side, 

With such force that the great mountain 
Opens a deep cavern wide, 

And bursts forth a living fountain 
Sparkling with its silvery tide; 
And the Nereids, fifty strong, 
To the water's babbling song. 
Like fairy wands 
From Neptune's hands 
Sally from this cavern wide, 
Sailing o'er the gray, cold rocks, 
With their fairy rainbow locks, 
Down upon the water's brim, 
Either way the surface skim, 
Till their taper'd finger tips 
Gently in the water dips; 
Then beneath the raging skies 
Neptune in his chariot flies 

O'er the sea, 
With his trident in his hand, 
In a bearing of command, 
Fitting to his majesty, 

He calls to his daughters 
To quit the wild waters, 
.He calls, but they heed not his word : 
Then his trident he hurls 
At his sea nymph girls, 
But the truants— they flee from their lord. 
Unto the clouds they go 

In the whirlwinds of the storm, 
Arethusa leads the way 
Wheresoe'er the winds may blow. 

She lithely moves her graceful form 
As if she would herself survey, 
And then she rides the southern wind 

And bids her sisters follow, 
And leave old Neptune far behind, 
Lord of his mountain hollow, 
To nurse his wrath 
And tread his path, 
And curse his fairy daughters, 
These mountain elves 
That freed themselves 
From the lord of ocean's waters. 
He grasped a trident in his hand 
That mystic rose at his command, 
And wildly blew till the great ocean 

Trembled like an aspen-tree, 
And winds that were in wild commotion, 

Whirling through immensity, 
He'd by his magic art control 
And gather in a secret scroll 
And hurl them at his Dorian daughters 
O'er the heaving angry waters, 
Till the growling thunders roll, 
Giving spleen to Neptune's soul, 
As he sees them dart through the air, 
Daughters fifty, all so fair, 

Free from the Ionian sea, 
Designed to be 
Their destiny. 



10 




Roll, thunders, roll! 
Till the many church-bells toll 

Once in unity, 
Touched by the enchanting wand 

Of his majesty, 
Who's arbiter of sea and land, 

And marks each destiny. 
But there! 

The fair-faced nymphs of air, 
Metamorphosed from the Dorian sea, 

O'er the waters, 

Lovely daughters, 
Through the misty clouds they flee, 

Their fairy forms 

Float o'er the storms 
So swift and magically 
That on the wings of the long streaming flashes 

They ride and they dance their delight, 
Wear crowns of electrical dashes. 
And bask in their dazzling light. 

Where the deep-voiced thunder peals louder, 
And the long-sheeted lightnings play fast, 

We see them peep through the dark cloud, or 
Bide off on a sulphurous blast. 

When the storm to its fullness is raging, 
And all nature at war seems to be, 



The cloud-sphere is then more engaging 
To them than a wild breaking sea. 

But now the growling, rolling, grumbling. 

Thunders in the distance mumbling, 

Fainter, fainter, dying, dying, 

And the lightning dimmer flying, 

O'er the dark cloud westward lying, 

As the morning in her glory 

Bursts forth like an ancient story, 

The while the resting sunbeams light 

On this dark cloud of the night, 

And the arching rainbow's given 

To the spirit-forms of heaven, 

In a moment unrolled 

In its pinions of gold, 

And quick as its birth 

It o'erclrcles the earth : 
And there the spirits of the storms 
Sit and rest their weary forms. 

N. J. Clodfelter. 




THE DAISY. 



SjHRIGHT flower whose home is everywhere! 
e|& A pilgrim bold in nature's care, 
And all the long year through, the heir 

Of joy or sorrow, 
Methinks that there abides in thee 
Some concord with humanity, 
Giv'n to no other flower I see 

The forest through. 




Is it that man is soon depress 'd? 
A thoughtless thing! who, once unblest, 
Does little on his memory rest, 
Or on his reason, 
And thou wouldst teach him how to find 
A shelter under every wind, 
A hope for times that are unkind, 
And every season? 



Thou wanderest the wide world about, 
Uncheck'd by pride or scrupulous doubt, 
With friends to greet thee, or without, 

Yet pleased or willing; 
Meek, yeilding to th' occasion's call, 
And all things suffering from all, 
Thy function apostolical 

In peace fulfilling. 

William Wobdswoeth. 




13 




14 




15 




16 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 
On turning one down with the plough, in April, 1786. 



["EE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou's met me in an evil hour, 
For I maun crush amang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my power, 
Thou bonny gem. 

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet, 
The bonny lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, 

Wi' speckled breast, 
When upward springing, blithe to greet 

The purpling east. 

Cauld blew the bitter, biting north 
Upon thy early, humble birth ; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce reared above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 



The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, 
High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield: 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorns the histie stibble-field, 

Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 

And low thou lies! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade! 
By love's simplicity betrayed, 

And guileless trust, 
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 

On life's rough ocean luckless starred! 

Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore, 
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er! 



Such fate to suffering worth is given, 
Who long with wants and woes has striven, 
By human pride or cunning driven 

To misery's brink, 
Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruined, sink! 



Even thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine — do distant date; 
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 

Full on thy bloom, 

Till crushed beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom ! 

Robert Bubns. 
17 







A WINTER'S EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE. 



ffj THOU of home the guardian Lar, 
2* And when our earth hath wandered 

far 
Into the cold, and deep snow covers 
The walks of our New England lovers, 
Their sweet secluded evening star! 
'Twas with thy rays the English Muse 
Ripened her mild domestic hues: 
'Twas by thy nicker that she conned 
The fireside wisdom that enrings 
With light from heaven familiar things ; 
By thee she found the homely faith 
In whose mild eyes thy comfort stay'th, 
When death, extinguishing his torch, 
Gropes for the latch-string in the porch ; 
The love that wanders not beyond 
His earliest nest, but sits and sings 
While children smooth his patient wings : 
Therefore with thee I love to read 
Our brave old poets : at thy touch how 

stirs 
Life in the withered words: how swift 

recede 
Time's shadows! and how glows again 
Through its dead mass the incandescent 

verse, 
As when upon the anvils of the brain 
It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought 
By the fast-throbbing hammers of the 

poet's thought! 
Thou murmurest, too, divinely stirred 
The aspirations unattained, 
The rhythms so rathe and delicate, 
They bent and strained 
And broke, beneath the somber weight 
Of any airiest mortal word. 



As who would say, " 'Tis those, I ween, 
Whom lifelong armor-chafe makes lean 

That win the laurel;" 
While the gray snow-storm, held aloof, 
To softest outline rounds the roof, 
Or the rude North with baffled strain 
Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane ! 
Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne 
By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems 
Gifted upon her natal morn 
By him with fire, by her with dreams, 
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse 
Than all the grapes' bewildering juice, 
We worship, unf orbid of thee ; 
And, as her incense floats and curls 
In airy spires and wayward whirls, 
Or poises on its tremulous stalk 
A flower of frailest reverie, 
So winds and loiters, idly free, 
The current of unguided talk, 
Now laughter-rippled, and now caught 
In smooth, dark pools of deeper thought. 
Meanwhile thou mellowest every word, 
A sweetly unobstrusive third : 
For thou hast magic beyond wine, 
To unlock natures each to each ; 
The unspoken thought thou canst divine: 
Thou fillest the pauses of the speech 
With whispers that to dreamland reach, 
And frozen fancy-springs unchain 
In Arctic outskirts of the brain ; 
Sun of all inmost confidences! 
To thy rays doth the heart unclose 
Its formal calyx of pretenses, 
That close against rude day's offenses, 
And open its shy midnight rose. 

James Russell Lowell. 



By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 




19 





The tulip is a courtly quean, 
Whom, therefore, I will shun; 

The cowslip is a country wench, 
The violet is a nun ; 

But I will woo the dainty rose, 
The queen of every one. 

The pea is but a wanton witch, 

In too much haste to wed, 
And clasps her rings on every hand; 

The wolf's-bane I should dread ; 
Nor will I dreary rosemarye, 

That always mourns the dead ; 
But I will woo the dainty rose, 

With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint, 

And so is no mate for me ; 
And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a 
blush, 

She is of such low degree; 
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 

And the broom's betrothed to the bee; 
But I will plight with the dainty rose, 

For fairest of all is she. 

Thomas Hood. 



MAY MORNING 



fOW the bright morning star, day's 
harbinger, 
Comes dancing from the east, and 
leads with her 
The flowery May, who from her green 

lap throws 
The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 
Hail, bounteous May! that doth inspire 
Mirth and youth and warm desire; 
Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. 
Thus we salute thee with our early song, 
And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

Milton. 



®. 




20 



WOODS IN WINTER. 



[HEN winter winds are piercing chill, 
And through the hawthorn blows 
the gale, 
With solemn feet I tread the hill 
That overbrows the lonely vale. 

O'er the bare upland, and away 

Through the long reach of desert woods, 
The embracing sunbeams chastely play, 

And gladden these deep solitudes. 




Where, twisted 'round the barren oak, 
The summer vine in beauty clung, 

And summer winds the stillness broke, 
The crystal icicle is hung. 



Where, from their frozen urns, mute 
springs 

Pour out the river's gradual tide, 
Shrilly the skater's iron rings, 

And voices fill the woodland side. 

Alas ! how changed from the fair scene, 
When birds sang out their mellow lay, 

And winds were soft, and woods were green, 
And the song ceased not with the day. 



But still wild music is abroad, 

Pale, desert woods! within your crowc 
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord, 

Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. 

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear 
Has grown familiar with your song; 

I hear it in the opening year — 
I listen, and it cheers me long. 

Henry W. Longfellow 



21 




22 



OH, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. 



r p)H, my Luve's like a red, red rose 
l)i That's newly sprung in June ; 
Oh, my Luve's like the melodie 

That's sweetly played in tune. 
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I ; 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 



Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 

And the rocks melt wi' the sun ; 
I will luve thee still, my dear, 

While the sands o' life shall run. 
And fare thee weel, my only Luve ! 

And fare thee weel awhile ! 
And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

Robert Burns.. 




I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 



c/t REMEMBER, I remember 
^ The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 

Came peeping in at morn. 
He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day ; 
But now I often wish the night 

Had borne my breath away! 

I remember, I remember 

The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups— 

Those flowers made of light! 
The lilacs where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday — 

The tree is living yet! 



I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 
And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wiDg; 
My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now, 
And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow! 

I remember, I remember 

The fir-trees dark and high ; 
I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky. 
It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 
To know I'm farther off from heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood, 



23 




THE USE OF FLOWERS. 



qglOD might have bade the earth bring forth 
^ Enough for great and small, 
The oak-tree and the cedar-tree, 

Without a flower at all. 
We might have had enough, enough 

For every want of ours, 
For luxury, medicine and toil, 

And yet have had no flowers. 

Then, wherefore, wherefore were they made, 

All dyed with rainbow-light, 
All fashioned with supremest grace 

Upspringing day and night — 
Springing in valleys green and low, 

And on the mountains high, 
And in the silent wilderness 

Where no man passes by? 

Our outward life requires them not — 

Then wherefore had they birth? 
To minister delight to man, 

To beautify the earth ; 
To comfort man — to whisper hope, 

Whene'er his faith is dim, 
For who so careth for the flowers 

Will care much more for him ! 

Mart Howitt. 




^feife^I 



24 




25 



TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF 
INVERSNAID. 

^§WEET Highland Girl, a very shower 
fifo Of beauty is thy eartly dower! 
Twice seven consenting years have shed 
Their utmost bounty on thy head ; 
And these gray rocks, this household lawn, 
These trees — a veil just half withdrawn — 
This fall of water that doth make 
A murmur near the silent lake, 
This little bay, a quiet road 
That holds in shelter thy abode ; 






In truth together ye doth seem 
Like something fashioned in a dream; 
Such forms as from their covert peep 
When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 
But O fair Creature! in the light 
Of common day so heavenly bright, 
I bless thee, Vision as thou art, 
I bless thee with a human heart: 
God shield thee to thy latest years! 
I neither know thee nor thy peers; 
And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

William Wordsworth. 

26 



THE FISHERMEN. 



c^apHREE fishers went sailing out into the 
c& west — 

Out into the west as the sun went down; 
Each thought of the woman who loved him 
the best, 




And the children stood watching them out 
of the town; 
For men must work and women must weep; 
And there's little to earn and many to keep, 
Though the harbor bar be moaning. 



Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, 
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went 
down; 
And they looked at the squall, and they looked 
at the shower, 
And the rack it came rolling up, ragged and 
brown ; 
But men must work, and women must weep, 
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 



Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 
And the women are watching and wringing 
their hands, 
For those who will never come back to the 
town; 

For men must work, and women must 
Sr^ weep,' 

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to 
sleep, 
And good-by to the bar and its 
moaning. 

Chakles Kingsley. 




27 




mm); -«w 

1 '„;»'':: :^4 




LOVE'S SILENCE. 



BECAUSE I breathe not love to everie one, 
%^° Nor do not use set colors for to weare, 

Nor nourish special locks of vowed haire, 
Nor give each speech a full point of a groane — 
The courtlie nymphs, acquainted with the rnoane 

Of them who on their lips Love's standard beare, 

"What! he?" say they of me. "Now, I dare sweare 
He cannot love: No, no! let him alone." 

And think so still — if Stella know my minde. 

Profess, indeed, I do not Cupid's art; 

But you, faire maids, at length this true shall finde — 
That his right badge is but worne in the hearte. 

Dumb swans, not chattering pies, do lovers prove; 

They love indeed who quake to say they love. 

Sir Philip Sidney. 




81 ^l 



28 




BENEDICITE. 



— *- 



fOD'S love and peace be with thee, where 
Soe'er this soft autumnal air 
Lift the dark tresses oi thy hair ! 

Whether through city casements comes 
Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms, 
Or out among the woodland blooms, 

It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, 
Imparting, in its glad embrace, 
Beauty to beauty, grace to grace! 

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 



29 



Fair nature's book together read, 

The old wood-paths that knew our tread, 

The maple's shadows overhead — 

* * * * *- •:::- 

God's love— unchanging, pure and true — 
The Paraclete white-shining through 
His peace— the fall of Hermon's dew ! 

With such a prayer, on this sweet day, 
As thou mayst hear and I may say, 
I greet thee, dearest, far away ! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 




CRADLE SONG. 



FROM "BITTER-SWEET.' 



little one thinking: 




HAT is the 
about? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt; 
Unwritten his story! 
Unfathomed mystery! 
Yet he chuckles, and crows, and nods, and 

winks, 
As if his head were as full of kinks 
And curious riddles as any sphinx! 
Warped by colic and wet by tears, 
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years; 
And he'll never know 
Where the summers go; 
He need not laugh, for he'll find it so. 

Who can tell what a baby thinks? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way 
Out from the shore of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day? 
Out from the shore of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony; 
Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls- 
Barks that were launched on the other side, 
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide! 

What does he think of his mother's eyes? 
What does he think of his mother's hair? 

What of the cradle-roof, that flies 
Forward and backward through the air? 

What does he think of his mother's breast, 
Bare and beautiful, smooth and white, 
Seeking it ever with fresh delight, 

Cup of his life, and couch of his rest? 
What does he think when her quick embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart-throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell, 
Though she murmur the words 
Of all the birds- 
Words she has learned to murmur well? 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep! 
I can see the shadow creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
Over his brow and over his lips, 
Out to his little finger-tips! 
Softly sinking, down he goes! 
Down he goes! down he goes! 
See! he's hushed in sweet repose. 

Josiah Gilbert Holland.. 






30 




31 




-^^55*%%?^ 



THANATOPSIS. 



tO him who, in the love of Nature, holds 
Communion with her visible forms, she 
speaks 
A various language: for his gayer hours 
She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
And eloquence of beauty; and she glides 
Into his darker musings with a mild 
And gentle sympathy, that steals away 
Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
Over thy spirit, and sad images 
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 
Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, 
Go forth under the open sky, and list 
To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice, Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements; 
To be a brother to the insensible rock, 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
Shalt thou retire alone — nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings, 
The powerful of the earth, the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepnlcher. The hills, 
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales, 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks, 
That make the meadows green : and, poured 
'round all, 



Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
Through all the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings 
Of morning, traverse the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound 
Save his own dashings— yet the dead are there! 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone! 
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase 
His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall 

come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men— 
The youth in life's green spring, and he who 

goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man- 
Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side 
By those who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 

soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
William Cullen Bkyant. 



32 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



\X/lLLIAM CUIylyEN BRYANT.— Cummington, Massachusetts, was the birthplace of 
William Cullen Bryant; the date, November 3, 1794. His father was a physician, 
who also served a number of terms as a member of the Massachusetts Legislature. The son 
early developed a talent for writing verse. At the age of thirteen his first published poem 
appeared. He was for one year a student at Williams College ; then he took up the study of 
law, and practiced at the bar for about ten years. In the meantime his " Thanatopsis," 
written when he was only eighteen years of age, had appeared in the North American Review. 
In 1825 Mr. Bryant removed to New York, where he accepted a position on the editorial 
staff of the Evening Post. Three years later he became editor-in-chief, a position which 
he held for fifty years — until his death, 1878. He stood in the foremost ranks of those who 
devote their time to letters. His poems are read and admired wherever the English language 
is spoken. His translations of the "Iliad" and "Odyssey" appeared in 1870-2. One of his 
latest efforts was a splendid compilation, "library of Poetry and Song," to the publishers of 
which we are indebted for several selections appearing in this series. 




TO A WATERFOWL. 



cilMHITHER, midst falling dew, 
<$& while glow the heavens with the last steps 

of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 
Thy solitary way? 



Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side? 

There is a power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast — 
The desert and illimitable air — 

Lone wandering, but not lost. 



All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain 

flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 
Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



34 




BONNIE WEE- THING. 



fONNIE wee thing! cannie wee thing! 
Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 
Wishfully I look, and languish, 

In that bonnie face o' thine; 
And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 



35 



Wit and grace, and love and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine; 
To adore the"e is my duty, 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine! 
Bonnie wee thing! cannie wee thing! 

Lovely wee thing! wert thou mine, 
I wad wear thee in my bosom, 

Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Robert Burns. 




36 



dun 



iillf 

Ipti 






slfci 



■', 




JBBllL 




NATURE'S CHAIN. 



FROM THE "ESSAY ON MAN." 

fOOK 'round our world; behold the chain 
of love 
Combining all below and all above, 
See plastic nature working to this end, 
The single atoms each to other tend, 
Attract, attracted to, the next in place, 
Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. 
See matter next, with various life endued, 
Press to one center still, the general good. 
See dying vegetables life sustain, 
See life dissolving vegetate again ; 
All forms that perish other forms supply 
(By turns we catch the vital breath, and die); 
Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne, 
They rise, they break, and to that sea return. 
Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; 
One all-extending, all-preserving Soul 
Connects each being, greatest with the least; 
Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast; 
All served, all serving; nothing stands alone; 
The chain holds on, and where it ends, 
unknown. 

Has God, thou fool! worked solely for thy 
good, 
Thy joy, thy pastime, thy attire, thy food? 
Who for thy table feeds the wanton fawn, 
For him as kindly spread the flowery lawn. 
Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? 
Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. 
Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat? 
Loves of his own and raptures swell the note. 
The bounding steed you pompously bestride 
Shares with his lord the pleasure and the pride. 
Is thine alone the seed that strews the plain? 
The birds of heaven shall vindicate their grain. 
Thine the full harvest of the golden year? 
Part pays, and justly, the deserving steer; 
The hog that plows not, nor obeys thy call, 
Lives on the labors of this lord of all. 

Know, nature's children all divide her care; 
The fur that warms a monarch warmed a bear, 
While man exclaims, "See all things for my 

use!" 
"See man for mine!" replies a pampered goose; 
And just as short of reason he must fall 
Who thinks all made for one, not one for all. 

Pope. 

37 




Sillillili 




TO A MOUSE. 



[EE, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
. Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need 1 na start awa sae hasty, 
Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin' an' chase thee, 

Wi' murd'ring pattle! 



I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

"Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow mortal! 



1 doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
"What then? poor beastie, thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'S a sma' request; 
I'll get a blessin' wi' the lave, 

And never miss't! 



Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin'! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell and keen! 



Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 
'Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 

Out thro' thy cell. 



\, 






^/- 



That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 



But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain ; 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain 

For promis'd joy. 



Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee; 
But, och! I backward cast my e'e, 

On prospects drear! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

1 guess an' fear. 

Robert Burns. 





^tfrHE bowers whereat, in dreams, 

</$> I see 

jS^ The wantonest singing birds, 

Are lips— and all thy melody 
Of lip-begotten words. 



Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart en- 
shrin'd, 

Then desolately fall, 
Oh, God! on my funereal mind 

Like starlight on a pall. 

39 



Thy heart— thy heart— I wake and 
sigh, 
And sleep to dream till day 
Of the truth that gold can never buy, 
Of the baubles that it may. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 




FROSTS ARE SLAIN AND FLOWERS 
BEGOTTEN. 



^OR winter's rains and ruins are over, 

And all the season of snows and sins; 
The days dividing lover and lover, 

The light that loses, the night that wins ; 
And time remembered is grief forgotten, 
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, 
And in green underwood and cover 

Blossom by blossom the spring begins. 

The full streams feed on flowers and rushes, 
Ripe grasses trammel a traveling foot, 

The faint, fresh flame of the young year flushes 
From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; 

And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, 

And the oat is heard above the lyre, 

And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes 
The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. 

And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, 

Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, 
Follows with dancing and fills with delight 

The Maenad and the Bassarid ; 
And soft as lips that laugh and hide, 
The laughing leaves of the trees divide, 
And screen from seeing and leave in sight 
The god pursuing, the maiden hid. 

The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair 
Over her eyebrows shading her eyes; 
The wild vine slipping down leaves bare 

Her bright breast shortening into sighs; 
The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, 
But the berried ivy catches and cleaves 
To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare 
The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. 

Algernon Charles Swinbubne. 

40 




41 



fej^ 




TO A SPIDER. 



cJ^gPIDER! thou needst not run in fear 
!ffi> about 

To shun my curious eyes; 
I won't humanely crush thy bowels out, 

Lest thou shoiildst eat the flies ; 
Nor will I roast thee, with cursed delight 
Thy strange instinctive fortitude to see, 
For there is One who might 
One day roast me. 

Thou art welcome to a Rhymer sore 
perplext, 
The subject of his verse; 
There's many a one who on a better text 

Perhaps might comment worse. 
Then shrink not, old Free-Mason, from my 

view, 
But quietly like me spin out the line; 
Do thou thy work pursue, 
As I will mine. 



Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the 
ways 
Of Satan, Sire of lies ; 
Hell's huge black Spider, for mankind he 
lays 
His toils, as thou for flies. 
When Betty's busy eye runs 'round the 

room, 
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen ! 
But where is He whose broom 
The earth shall clean ? 

Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were 
thought — 
And 'twas a likeness true — 
To emblem laws in which the weak are 
caught, 
But which the strong break through ; 
And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en, 
Like some poor client is that wretched fly : 
I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain 
His lib-blood dry. 



And is not thy weak work like human 
schemes 
And care on earth employed? 
Such are young hopes and Love's delightful 
dreams 
So easily destroyed; 
So does the Statesman, whilst the Avengers 

sleep, 
Self-deemed secure, his wiles in secret 
lay; 
Soon shall destruction sweep 
His work away. 

Thou busy laborer! one resemblance more 

May yet the verse prolong; 
For, Spider, thou art like the Poet poor, 

Whom thou hast helped in song. 
Both busily, our needful food to win, 
We work, as Nature taught, with cease- 
less pains: 
Thy bowels thou dost spin, 
I spin my brains. 

Robert Southey. 





TO MY MOTHER. 



JiDECAUSE I feel that, in the Heavens above, 

p+P The angels, whispering to one another, 

^f*. Can find, among their burning terms of love, 

None so devotional as that ot "Mother," 
Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— 

You who are more than mother unto me, 
And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed 
you, 



In setting my Virgin's spirit free, 
My mother — my own mother, who died early, 

Was but the mother of myself; but you 
Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, 

And thus are dearer than the mother I knew 
By that infinity with which my wife 

Was dearer to my soul than its own soul-life. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 



43 



WHEN TO THE SESSIONS OF SWEET, 
SIEENT THOUGHT. 



csTAXHEN to the sessions of sweet, silent thought 
^fiGs I summon up remembrance of things past, 
cr^ I sigh the lack of many a thing X sought, 

And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste 

Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow, 

For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, 

And weep afresh love's long since canceled woe, 

And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. 

Then can I grieve at grievances foregone, 

And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er 

The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, 

Which I new pay, as if not paid before; 

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, 

All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 

Shakspeke. 




c\yi CANNOT tell what you say, green leaves, 

I cannot tell what you say; 
But I know that there is a spirit in you, 
And a word in you this day. 

I cannot tell what you say, rosy rocks, 

I cannot tell what you say; 
But I know that there is a spirit in you, 

And a word in you this day. 

I cannot tell what you say, brown streams, 

I cannot tell what you say; 
But I know that in you, too, a spirit doth live, 

And a word doth speak this day. 

44 




"Oh, green is the color of faith and truth, 
And rose the color of love and youth, 

And brown of the fruitful clay. 
Sweet earth is faithful, fruitful and young, 



And her bridal day shall come ere long; 
And you shall know what the rocks and the streams 
And the whispering woodlands say." 

Charles Kingsley. 



45 



THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 



DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY, 



fOW does the water 
Come down at Lodore?" 
My little boy asked me 
Thus, once on a time; 
And moreover he tasked me 
To tell him in rhyme. 
Anon at the word, 
There first came one daughter, 
And then came another, 
To second and third 
The request of their brother, 
And to hear how the water 
Comes down at Lodore, 
With its rush and its roar, 

As many a time 
They had seen it before. 
So I told them in rhyme, 
For of rhymes I had store ; 
And 'twas in my vocation 
For their recreation 
That so I should sing; 
Because I was Laureate 
To them and the King. 



From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell; 
From its fountains 
In the mountains, 
Its rills and its gills; 
Through moss and through 
It runs and it creeps 
For awhile, till it sleeps 

In its own little lake. 

And thence at departing, 

Awakening and starting, 

It runs through the reeds, 

And away it proceeds, 

Through meadow and glade, 

In sun and in shade, 
And through the wood shelter, 
Among crags in its flurry, 
Helter-skelter, 
Hurry-skurry. 
Here it comes sparkling, 
And there it lies darkling; 
Now smoking and frothing 
Its tumult and wrath in, 




Till in this rapid race 
On which it is bent, 
It reaches the place 

Of its steep descent. 

The cataract strong 
Then plunges along, 
Striking and raging 
As if a war waging 
| Its caverns and rocks among 
Rising and leaping, 
Sinking and creeping, 
Swelling and sweeping, 
Showering and springing, 

Flying and flinging, 
Writhing and ringing, 
Eddying and whisking, 
Spouting and frisking, 
Turning and twisting, 



Around and around 
With endless rebound: 
Smiting and fighting, 
A sight to delight in ; 
Confounding, astounding, 
Dizzying and deafening the ear with 
its sound. 

Collecting, projecting, 
Receding and speeding. 
And shocking and rocking, 
And darting and parting, 
And threading and spreading, 
And whizzing and hissing, 
And dripping and skipping, 
And bitting and splitting, 
And shining and twining, 
And rattling and battling, 
And shaking and quaking, 



And pouring and roaring, 
And waving and raving, 
And tossing and crossing, 
And flowing and going, 
And running and stunning, 
And foaming and roaming, 
And dinning and spinning, 
And dropping and hopping, 
And working and jerking, 
And guggling and struggling, 
And heaving and cleaving, 
And moaning and groaning; 

And glittering and frittering, 
And gathering and feathering, 
And whitening and brightening, 
And quivering and shivering, 
And hurrying and skurrying, 
And thundering and floundering; 




Dividing and gliding and sliding, 

And falling and brawling and sprawling, 

And driving and riving and striving, 

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, 

And sounding and bounding and rounding, 

And bubbling and troubling and doubling, 

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, 

And clattering and battering and shattering; 

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, 
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, 
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, 



Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, 

And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, 

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, 

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, 

And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, 

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, 

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; 

And so never ending, but always descending, 

Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, 

All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, 

And this way the water comes down at Lodore. 

Robert Southey. 



47 




JENNY KISSED ME. 



-6\>]ENNY kissed me when we met, 
<5-l Jumping from the chair she sat in. 
^a fc Time, you thief! who love to get 
Sweets into your list, put that in. 



Say I'm weary, say I'm sad: 

Say that health and wealth have missed me ; 
Say I'm growing old, lint add— 

Jenny kissed me! 

Leigh Hunt. 



48 




ell me not, in mournful numbers. 
Life is but an empty dream ! 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seeni* 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 

And the grave is not its goal; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 

Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Find us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and time is fleeting, 
And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums are beating 
Funeral marohes to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife ! 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act — act in the living Present! 

Heart within, and God o'erhead! 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of times- 
Footprints that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing, 

With a heart for any fate; 
Still achieving, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



49 




50 



LOVE LETTERS MADE OF FLOWERS. 



j^ffSfN exquisite invention this, 
<?$>■ Worthy of Love's most honeyed kiss- 
This art of writing billet-doux 
In buds, and odors, and" bright hues! 
In saying all one feels and thinks 
In clever daffodils and pinks; 



In puns of tulips; and in phrases, 
Charming for their truth, of daisies; 
Uttering, as well as silence may, 
The sweetest words the sweetest wpy. 
How fit, too, for the lady's bosom! 
The place where billet-doux repose 'em. 



What delight in some sweet spot 

Combining love wi-th .garden plot, 

At once to cultivate one's flowers 

And one's epistolary powers! 

Growing one's own choice words and fancies 

In orange tubs, and beds of pansies; 

One's sighs, and passionate declarations, 

In odorous rhetoric of carnations; 

Seeing how far one's stocks will reach, 

Taking due care one's flowers of speech 

To guard from blight as well as bathos, 

And watering every day one's pathos! 

A letter comes, just gathered. We 

Dote on its tender brilliancy, 

Inhale its delicate expressions 

Of balm and pea, and its confessions 

Made with as sweet a maiden's blush 

As ever morn bedewed on bush : 

('Tis in reply to one of ours, 

Made of the most convincing flowers.) 



Then, after we have kissed its wit, 

And heart, in water putting it 

(To keep its remarks fresh), go 'round 

Our little eloquent plot of ground, 

And with enchanted hands compose 

Our answer— all of lily and rose, 

Of tuberose and of violet, 

And little darling (mignonette) ; 

Of look at me and call me to you 

(Words, that while they greet, go throu 

Of thoughts, of flames, forget-me-not, 

Bridcivort—in short, the 

whole blest lot 
Of vouchers for a lifelon 

kiss— 
And literally, breathin 

bliss ! 

Leigh Hunt. 




-V"' 



<**r 



r-f- 



51 




53 




54 




^cSTARS they are, wherein 
Js history, 

As astrologers and seers of eld; 
Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery 

Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in those stars above; 

But not less in tbe bright flowerets under us 
Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation, 
Written all over this great world of ours; 

Making evident our own creation, 
In these stars of earth— these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing, 
Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part 

Of the self-same universal being 
Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining, 
Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day, 

Tremulous leaves with soft and silver lining, 
Buds that open only to decay; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues, 

Flaunting gaily in the golden light; 
Large desires, with most uncertain issues, 

Tender wishes blossoming at night! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming; 
Workings are they of the self-same powers, 
Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming, 
Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 



Everywhere about us are they 

glowing, 
Some like stars to tell us 

Spring is born; 

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'er- 
flowing, 
Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing, 

And in Summer's green emblazoned field, 
But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing, 

In the center of his brazen shield ; 
Not alone in meadows and green valleys, 

On the mountain-top, and by the brink 
Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys, 

Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink ; 
Not alone in her vast dome of glory, 

Not on graves of bird and beast alone, 
But in old cathedrals, high and hoary, 

On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; 
In the cottage of the rudest peasant, 

In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers, 
Speaking of the Past unto the Present, 

Tell us of the ancient games of flowers. 
In all plaees, then, and in all seasons, 

Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings, 
Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons, 

How akin they are to human things. 




And with childlike, credulous affection 
We behold their tender buds expand ; 

Emblems of our own great resurrection, 
Emblems of the bright and better land. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 

55 




EASTER WEEK. 



JeE the land, her Easter keeping, 
jjj| Rises as her Maker rose. 
Seeds so long in darkness sleeping, 
Burst at last from winter snows. 
Earth with heaven above rejoices; 

Fields and gardens hail the spring; 
Shaughs and woodlands ring with voices, 
While the wild birds build and sing. 



You, to whom your Maker granted 

Powers to those sweet birds unknown, 
Use the craft by God implanted, 

Use the reason not your own. 
Here, while heaven and earth rejoices, 

Each his Easter tribute bring— 
Work of fingers, chant of voices. 

Like the birds who build and sing. 

Charles Kingsley. 



50 




57 




59 




ALMOND BLOSSOM. 



^IgLOSSOM of the almond-trees, 

e|& April's gift to April's bees, 

Birthday ornament of spring, 

Flora's fairest daughterling— 

Coming when no flowerets dare 

Trust the cruel outer air, 

When the royal king-cup bold 

Dares not don his coat of gold, 

And the sturdy blackthorn spray 

Keeps his silver for the May — 

Coming when no flowerets would, 

Save thy lowly sisterhood, 

Early violets, blue and white, 

Dying for their love of light. 

Almond blossom, sent to teach us 

That the spring days soon will reach us, 

Lest, with longing over-tried 

We die as the violets died — 

Blossom, clouding all the tree 

With thy crimson broidery, 

Long before a leaf of green 

On the bravest bough is seen — 

Ah! when winter winds are swinging 

All thy red bells into ringing, 

With a bee in every bell, 

Almond bloom, we greet thee well. 

Edwin Arnold 




60 




61 




62 




63 




A HOPE. 



-4- 



fWIN stars, aloft in ether clear, 
Around each other roll away, 
Within one common atmosphere 
Of their own mutual light and day. 



And myriad happy eyes are bent 
Upon their changeless love alway; 

As, strengthened by their one intent, 
They pour the flood of life and day. 



So we through this world's waning night 
May, hand in hand, pursue our way; 

Shed 'round us order, love and light, 
And shine unto the perfect day. 

Charles Kingsley. 




64 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, February 22, 1819. 
His father was the Rev. Charles Lowell, and was a direct descendant of English 
settlers. After graduating from Harvard (1838), he entered law. In 1841 "A Year's Life," 
his first volume of poems, was given to the public. In 1844 he was married to Maria White. 
The well-known "Bigelow Papers" made Mr. Lowell's name widely known ; they appeared in 
the Boston Courier in 1846-8. In 1845 "The Vision of Sir Launfal" was issued. It is one of 
the grandest poems in the English language ; the beautiful portrayal of a right gospel pervades 
it from beginning to end. He succeeded Longfellow as professor of belles-lettres at Harvard 
in 1855. He was a constant contributor to leading magazines, especially to the Atlantic 
Monthly. From 1863-72 he was one of the editors of The North Avierican Review. He was 
appointed minister to Spain by President Hayes in 1877, and in 1880 was transferred to 
London. He loved England almost as his own America, and was greatly admired and beloved 
by the English people. Oxford honored him with D.C.L., and Cambridge by making him 
an LL.D. His death occurred August 1, 1891. 




LOVE'S ALTAR. 



ojrb BUILT an altar in my soul, 
% I builded it to one alone ; 

And ever silently I stole, 
In happy days of long-agone, 
To make rich offerings to that one. 



'Twas garlanded with purest thought, 
And crowned with fancy's flowers bright, 

With choicest gems 'twas all inwrought 
Of truth and feeling; in my sight 
It seemed a spot of cloudless light. 



Yet when I made my offering there, 
Like Cain's, the incense would not rise; 

Back on my heart down-sank theprayer, 
And altar-stone and sacrifice 
Grew hateful in my tear-dimmed eyes. 



O'ergrown with age's mosses green, 
The little altar firmly stands; 

It is not, as it once hath been, 
Aselfish shrine— these time-taughthands 
Bring incense now from many lands. 



Knowledge doth only widen love; 
The stream, that lone and narrow rose, 

Doth, deepening ever, onward move, 
And with an even current flows 
Calmer and calmer to the close. 



The love, that in those early days 
Girt 'round my spirit like a wall, 

Hath faded like a morning haze, 
And flames, unpent by self's mean thrall 
Rise clearly to the perfect all. 

James Russell Lowell. 



66 



THE HOLLY-TREE. 




cp) EEADER! hast thou ever stood to see 

oKS The Holly-tree? 

^ The eye that contemplates it well per- 
ceives 
Its glossy leaves 

Ordered by an Intelligence so wise 

As might confound the Atheist's sophis- 
tries. 

I love to view these things with curious 
eyes, 
And moralize; 
And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree 

Can emblem see 
Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant 

rhyme, 
One which may profit in the aftertime. 

Thus, though abroad perchance I might 
appear 

Harsh and austere, 
To those who on my leisure would intrude 

Reserved and rude, 
Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. 

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I 
know, 

Some harshness show, 
All vain asperities I day by day 

Would wear away, 
Till the smooth temper of my age should be 
Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. 

And as, when all the summer trees are seen 

So bright and green, 
The Holly-leaves a sober hue display 

Less bright than they, 
But when the bare and wintry woods we 

see, 
What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree. 

So serious should my youth appear among 

The thoughtless throng; 
So would I seem, amid the young and gay, 

More grave than they, 
That in my age as cheerful I might be 
As the green winter of the Holly-tree. 

Robert Southey. 







% 



%^ikM 




AMY'S CRUELTY. 



C'RAIR Amy of the terraced house, . 
lis) Assist trie to discover 
^ Why you who would not hurt a mouse 
Can torture so your lover. 



You give your coffee to the cat, 
You stroke the dog for coming, 

And all your face grows kinder at 
The little brown bee's humming. 

But when Tie haunts your door . . . the town 
Marks coming and marks going, . . . 

You seem to have stitched your eyelids 
down 
To that long piece of sewing! 

You never give a look, not you, 
Nor drop him a "Good-morning," 

To keep his long day warm and blue, 
So fretted by your scorning. 

She shook her head: "The mouse and bee 
For crumb or flower will linger; 

The dog is happy at my knee, 
The cat purrs at my finger. 



But he . . . to him, the least thing given 
Means great things at a distance; 

He wants my world, my sun, my heaven, 
Soul, body, whole existence. 

They say love gives as well as takes; 

But I'm a simple maiden— 
My mother's first smile when she wakes 

I still have smiled and prayed in. 



I only know my mother's love, 
Which gives all and asks nothing, 

And this new loving sets the groove 
Too much the way of loathing. 

Unless he gives me all in change, 
I forfeit all things by him : 

The risk is terrible and strange — 
I tremble, doubt, . . . deny him. 




He's sweetest friend, or hardest ioe, 

Best angel, or worst devil; 
I either hate or . . . love him so, 

I can't be merely civil ! 

You trust a woman who puts forth 
Her blossoms thick as summer's? 

You think she dreams what love is worth 
Who casts it to new-comers? 



Such love's a cowslip-ball to fling, 

A moment's pretty pastime; 
I give ... all me, if anything, 

The first time and the last time. 

Dear neighbor of the trellised house, 
A man should murmur never, 

Though treated worse than dog or mouse, 
Till doted on forever!" 

Elizabeth Bakbett Browning. 




GO 



TRIADS. 



I. 



fHE word of the sun to the sky, 
The word of the wind to the sea, 
The word of the moon to the night, 
What may it be? 



The sense of the flower to the fly, 
The sense of the bird to the tree, 
The sense of the cloud to the light, 
Who can tell me? 



The song of the fields to the kye, 
The song of the lime to the bee, 
The song of the depth to the height, 
Who knows all three ? 




II. 

The message of April to May, 
That May sends on into June, 
And June gives out to July 
For birthday boon. 



The delight of the dawn in the day, 
The delight of the day in the noon, 
The delight of a song in a sigh 
That breaks the tune. 



The secret of passing away, 
The cast of the change of the moon, 
None knows it with ear or with eye, 
But all will soon. 



III. 

The live wave's love for the shore, 
The shore's for the wave as it dies, 
The love of the thunder-fire 
That sears the skies. 



We shall know not though life wax 
hoar 
Till all life, spent into sighs, 
Burn out as consumed with desire 
Of death's strange eyes. 



Till the secret be secret no more 
In the light of one hour as it flies, 
Be the hour as of suns that expire 
Or suns that rise. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



70 




MEETING. 



</ijHE gray sea, and the long, black land; 

v$k And the yellow half-moon large and low; 

gss^ And the startled little waves, that leap 

In fiery ringlets from their sleep, 
As I gain the cove with pushing prow, 
And quench its speed in the slushy sand. 



-4— 



71 



Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach; 

Three fields to cross, till a farm appears: 

A tap at the pane, the quick, sharp scratch 

And blue spurt of a lighted match, 

And a voice less loud, through its joysand fears; 

Than the two hearts, beating each to each. 

Robert Browning. 




EVANGELINE. 



jAIR was she to behold, that maiden of 

seventeen summers. 
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on 

the thorn by the wayside, 
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the 

brown shade of her tresses! 
Sweet was her breath as the breath of kine that 

feed in the meadows, 
When in the harvest heat she bore to the reapers 

at noontide 
Flagons of home-brewed ale, ah ! fair in sooth 

was the maiden. 
Fairer was she when, on Sunday morn, while 

the bell from its turret 
Sprinkled with holy sounds the air, as the priest 

with his hyssop 
Sprinkles the congregation, and scatters bless- 
ings among them. 



But a celestial brightness, a more ethereal 
beauty, 

Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, 
after confession, 

Homeward serenely she walked with God's 
benediction upon her. 

When she had passed, it seemed like the ceas- 
ing of exquisite music. 

Hkney W. Longfellow. 



79 




73 




74 




And all voices that address her 
Soften, sleeken every word, 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes, 
With the thymy-scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" 
Ay, and always, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure He doth. 

Elizabeth Bakrett Browning 



75 



COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. 



Gtri-IN a body meet a body 
Jg! Comin' through the rye, 
ffi> Gin a body kiss a body, 
Need a body cry? 
Every lassie has her laddie- 
Ne'er aane hae I; 
Yet a' the lads they smile at me 
When comin' through the rye. 
Among the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e myseV ; 
But whaur his hamc, or what fiis name 
1 dinna care to tell. 




Gin a body meet a body 

Comin' frae the town. 

Gin a body greet a body, 

Need a body frown ? 
Every lassie has her laddie- 
Ne'er a ane hae I; 
■ Yet a' the lads they smile at me 
When comin' through the rye. 
Amang the train there is a swain 

I dearly lo'e myseV ; 
But whaur his hame, or what his name, 
I dinna care to tell. 

Robert Burns. 



UNES. 



cy(| HEARD a thousand blended 
"5?! notes, 

While in a grove I sat re- 
clined, 
In that sweet mood when pleasant 
thoughts 
Bring sad thoughts to the mind, 



To her fair works did nature link 
The human soul that through 
me ran ; 
And much it grieved my heart to 
think 
What man has made of man. 



Through primrose tufts, in that 
sweet bower, 
The periwinkle trail'd its 
wreaths; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 



The birds around me hopp'd and 
play'd; 
Their thoughts I cannot meas- 
ure — 
But the least motion which they 
made, 
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 



The budding twigs spread out 
their fan, 

To catch the breezy air; 
And I must think, do all I can, 

That there was pleasure there. 



If 1 these thoughts may not 
prevent, 
If such be of my creed the plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What man has made of man? 
William Wordsworth. 



COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. 




OME into the garden, Maud, 
For the black bat, night, has flownJ 

Come into the garden, Maud, 
I am here at the gate alone ; 

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, 
And the musk of the roses blown. 



For a breeze of morning moves, 
And the planet of Love is on high, 

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, 
On a bed of daffodil sky — 

To faint in the light of the sun that she loves, 
To faint in its light, and to die. 



All night have the roses heard 

The flute, violin, bassoon; 
All night has the casement jessamine stirred 

To the dancers dancing in tune, 
Till a silence fell with the waking bird, 

And a hush with the setting moon. 



I said to the lily, "There is but one 

With whom she has heart to be gay. 
When will the dancers leave her alone? 

She is weary of dance and play." 
Now half to the setting moon are gone, 

And half to the rising day; 
Low on the sand and loud on the stone 

The last wheel echoes away. 



1 said to the rose, "The brief night goes 

In babble and revel and wine. 
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those 

For one that will never be thine? 
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, 

"For ever and ever mine!" 



And the soul of the rose went \nto my blood 
As the music clashed in the hall; 

And long by the garden lake I stood, 
For I heard your rivulet fall 

From the lake to the meadow and on to the 
wood, 
Our wood, that is dearer than all ; 



From the meadow your walks have left so 
sweet 

That whenever a March wind sighs, 
He sets the jewel-print of your feet 

In violets blue as your eyes, 
To the woody hollows in which we meet, 

And the valleys of Paradise. 

The slender acacia would not shake 

One long milk-bloom on the tree; 
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, 

As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; 
But the rose was awake all night for your 
sake, 

Knowing your promise to me; 
The lilies and roses were all awake, 

They sighed for the dawn and thee. 

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, 
Come hither! the dances are done; 

In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, 
Queen lily and rose in one; 

Shine out, little head, sunning over with, 
curls, 
To the flowers, and be their sun. 





There has fallen a splendid tear 

From the passion-flower at the gate. 
She is coining, my dove, my dear; 

She is coming, my life, my fate! 
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;" 

And the white rose weeps, "She is late;" 
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;" 

And the lily whispers, "I wait." 



She is coming, my own, my sweet! 

Were it ever so airy a tread, 
My heart would hear her and beat, 

Were it earth in an earthly bed ; 
My dust would hear her and beat, 

Had I lain for a century dead; 
Would start and tremble under her feet, 

And blossom in purple and red. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



79 



ON PARTING. 




HE kiss, dear maid! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift, 

Untainted, back to thine. 

Thy parting glance, which fondly beams, 

An equal love may see; 
The tear that from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write— to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak; 
Oh! what can idle words avail. 

Unless the heart could speak? 

By day or night, in weal or woe, 

That heart, no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent ache for thee. 

Byron. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



.^STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, 
j}J| Whom we, that have not seen thy facet 

By faith, and faith alone, embrace, 
Believing where we cannot prove; 



Thine are these orbs of light and shade; 

Thou madest Life in man and brute; 

Thou madest Death ; and lo, thy foot 
Is on the skull which thou hast made. 



Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: 
Thou madest man, he knows not why; 
He thinks he was not made to die; 

And thou hast made him : thou art just. 



Thou seemest human and divine, 
The highest, holiest manhood, thou: 
Our wills are ours, we know not how; 

Our wills are ours, to make them thine. 



Our little systems hare their day ; 
They have their day and cease to be: 
They are but broken lights of thee, 

And thou, O Lord, art more than they. 



We have but faith: we cannot know: 
For knowledge is of things we see; 
And yet we trust it comes from thee, 

A beam in darkness: let it grow. 



Let knowledge grow from more to more, 
But more of reverence in us dwell; 
That mind and soul, according well, 

May make one music as before. 



But vaster. We are fools and slight; 

We mock thee when we do not fear; 

But help thy foolish ones to bear, 
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. 

Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; 

What seem'd my worth since I began ; 

For merit lives from man to man, 
And not from man, O Lord, to thee. 



Forgive my grief for one removed, 
Thy creature, whom I found so fair. 
I trust he lives in thee, and there 

I find him worthier to be loved. 



Forgive these wild and wandering cries, 
Confusions of a wasted youth ; 
Forgive them where they fail in truth, 
And in thy wisdom make me wise. 

Alfred Tennyson. 
80 




81 




God is so good, He wears a fold 
Of heaven and earth across his 
face- 
Like secrets kept, for love, untold. 



But still I feel that His embrace 

Slides down by thrills, through all things made, 
Through sight and sound of every place. 



As if my mother laid 

On my shut lids, her kisses' pressure, 
Half waking me at night, and said, 

"Who kissed you through the dark, dear guesser? 
Elizabeth Bakkett Browning. 



82 



POOR MAIL.IE. 



?S Mailie, an' her lambs thegitber, 
fp± Were ae day nibbling on tbe tether, 
o^ Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch : 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he cam doytin' by, 
Wi' glowrin' e'en and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's; 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak — 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 

"O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my wofu' case! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my master dear. 

Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
Oh, bid him ne'er tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair! 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will; 



An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care.' 
An' if he live to be a beast, 




So may his flock increase, and grow 
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo'! 

Tell him he was a master kin' 
An' ay was guid to me an' mine; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

Oh, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel'; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay, an' rips o' corn. 



To pit some havins in his breast! 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content wi' yowes at name ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

An' niest my yowie, silly thing, 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string! 
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop, 

By ay keep mind to moop an' mell 

Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'! 

An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath 
I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith; 
An' when you think upo' your mither, 
Mind to be kin' to ane anither. 

Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell my master a' my tale; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains, thou'se get my blather." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her head,! 
An' closed her een amang the dead. 

Robert Burns. 



83 



WIIvLIE WINKIE. 



JEE Willie Winkie rins through the town, 
§? Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 
"Are the weans in their bed? for it's now ten o'clock.' 




Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye 

comin' ben? 
The cat's singin' gay thrums to. 

the sleepin' hen, 
The doug's speldered on the 

floor, and disna gie a cheep ; 
But here's a waukrife laddie, 

that winna fa' asleep. 



Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue; 

glow'rin' like the moon, 
■Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an 

airn spoon, 
Rumblin',tumblin' roun'about, 

crawin' like a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — 

waukin' sleepin' folk ! 



Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's 

in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee 

like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and 

ravelin' a' her thrums; 
Hey, Willie Winkie! See, there 

he comes! 



Wearie is the mither that has a 

storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that 

canna rin his lane, 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep, 

before he'll close an ee ; 
But a kiss f rae aff his rosy lips 

gies strength anew to me. 

William Miller.. 



MINNIE AND WINNIE. 



INNIE and Winnie slept in a shell. 
Sleep, little ladies! And they slept well. 



Pink was the shell within, 

Silver without; 
Sounds of the great sea 

Wander'd about. 

Sleep, little ladies! 

Wake not soon ! 
Echo on echo 

Dies to the moon. 



Two bright stars 
Peep'd into the shell. 

"What are they dreaming of, 
Who can tell?" 



Started a green linnet 

Out of the croft; 
Wake, little ladies, 

The sun is aloft ! 

Alfred Tennyson. 



84 




85 




SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 



cAgHE walks in beauty, like the night 
fl)l Of cloudless climes aud starry skies; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 

Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 

Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 



And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent! 

Byeon. 




87 



ODE TO TRANQUILITY. 



fRANQUILITY ! thou better 
name 
Than all the family of Fame ! 
Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
To low intrigue, or factious rage: 
For oh ' dear child of Thoughtful 
Truth, 
To thee I gave my early 



Ar. 



Er 




Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
On him but seldom, power divine, • 
Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 
And dire Remembrance interlope, 

To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind ; 

The bubble floats before, the specter stalks behind 



But me thy gentle hand will lead 
At morning through the accustomed mead; 
And in the sultry summer's heat 
Will build me up a mossy seat. 
And when the gust of Autumn crowds 
And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, 
Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, 
Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. 



The feeling heart, the scorching soul, 
To thee I dedicate the whole! 
And while within myself I trace 
The greatness of some future race, 
Aloof with hermit eye I scan 
The present works of present man— 
A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



89 




SEAWEED 

-4— 



CHEN descends on the Atlantic 
The gigantic 
Storm-wind of the equinox, 
Landward in his wrath he scourges 

The toiling surges, 
Laden with seaweed from the rocks 

From Bermuda's reefs; from edges 

OJ sunken ledges, 
In some far-off, bright Azore ; 
From Bahama, and the dashing, 

Silver-flashing 
Surges of San Salvador; 



From the tumbling surf that buries 

The Orkneyan skerries, 
Answering the hoarse Hebrides; 
And from wrecks of ships, and drifting 

Spars, uplifting 
On the desolate, rainy seas; 



Ever drifting, drifting, drifting 

On the shifting 
Currents of the restless main; 
Till in sheltered coves, and reaches 

Of sandy beaches, 
All have found repose again. 



So when storms of wild emotion 

Strike the ocean 
Of the poet's soul, erelong, 
From each cave and rocky fastness- 

In its vastness, 
Floats some fragment of a song; 



From the far-off isles enchanted 

Heaven has planted 
With the golden fruit of truth ; 
From the flashing surf, whose vision 

Gleams Elysian 
In the tropic clime of Youth; 



From the strong Will, and the En- 
deavor 

That forever 
Wrestles with the tides of Fate ; 
From the wreck of Hopes far-scattered, 

Tempest-shattered, 
Floating waste and desolate; 




91 




PEACE IN ACADIE. 



FROM "EVANGELINE." 

r ;t?HIS is the forest primeval. The mur- 

4*s muring pines and the hemlocks, 

cfv-< Bearded with moss, and in garments 
green, indistinct in the twilight, 

Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad 
and prophetic, 

Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that 
rest on their bosoms. 

Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep- 
voiced neighboring ocean 

Speaks, and in accents disconsolate 
answers the wail of the forest. 

This is the forest primeval; but where are 

the hearts that beneath it 
Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the 

woodland the voice of the huntsman ? 
Henry \V. Longfellow. 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 



/THE fountains mingle with the river, 
' 1 .' And the rivers with the ocean ; 
c^ The winds of heaven mix forever, 

With a sweet emotion : 
Nothing in the world is single; 

All things by a law divine 
In one another's being mingle- 
Why not I with thine? 

See! the mountains kiss high heaven, 

And the waves clasp one another; 
No sister flower would be forgiven 

If it disdained its brother; 
And the sunlight clasps the earth. 

And the moonbeams kiss the sea— 
What are all these kissings worth, 

If thou kiss not me? 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



92 




' ENTEEL in personage, 
- Conduct and equipage; 
Noble by heritage; 
Generous and free ; 



Brave, not romantic ; 
Learned, not pedantic; 
Frolic, not frantic — 
This must he be. 



Honor maintaining, 
Meanness disdaining, 
Still entertaining, 
Engaging and new ; 



Neat, but not finical; 
Sage, but not cynical; 
Never tyrannical, 
But ever true. 
Henry Fielding. 



94 




SONNETS. 



qjgO, "Valentine, and tell that lovely maid, 

^ Whom fancy still will portray to my sight, 
How here I linger in this sullen shade, 

This dreary gloom of dull, monastic night; 
Say that, from every joy of life remote, 

At evening's closing hour I quit the throng, 
Listening in solitude the ring-dove's note, 

Who pours like me her solitary song; 
Say that her absence calls the sorrowing sigh ; 

Say that of all her charms I love to speak, 
In fancy feel the magic of her eye, 

In fancy view the smile illume her cheek, 
Court the lone hour when silence stills the grove 
And heave the sigh of memory and of love. 



Think, Valentine, as, speeding on thy way, 

Homeward thou hastest light of heart along, 
If heavily creep on one little day 

The medley crew of travelers among, 
Think on thine absent friend; reflect that here 

On life's sad journey comfortless he roves, 
Remote from every scene his heart holds dear — 

From him he values, and from her he loves. 
And when, -disgusted with the vain and dull, 

Whom chance companions of thy way may doom, 
Thy mind, of each domestic comfort full, 

Turns to itself, and meditates on home, 
Ah ! think what cares must ache within his breast 
Who loathes the road, yet sees no home of rest. 

Robert Southey. 



95 




TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 



3|hOU blossom, bright with autumn dew, 
$£ And colored with the heaven's own blue, 
That openest when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night; 



Thou comest not when violets lean 

O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, 

Or columbines, in purple dressed, 

Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. 



Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, 
When woods are bare and birds are flown, 
And frosts and shortening days portend 
The aged Year is near his end. 



Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue— blue— as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 



I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to heaven as I depart. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



96 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



/~\LIVER WENDELL HOLMES was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, August 29, 1S09. 
^^^ He attended Phillips Academy in Andover, and in 1S29 graduated from Harvard. 
The following year some of his poems appeared in the Advertiser, of Boston. At first 
he studied law, but soon gave this over for the study of medicine. After spending three 
years in medical study at Edinburgh and Paris, he was given a degree in 1836. During the 
same year his first volume of poems appeared. He practiced medicine some time in Boston. 
From 1847 to 1882 he was Parkman professor of anatomy at Harvard University. 

Among the famous contributions to literature from the pen of Dr. Holmes, "The Autocrat 
of the Breakfast Table," "The Professor at the Breakfast Table," "The Poet at the Breakfast 
Table," and "Over the Teacups" are probably most widely read. He has been a prolific 
writer for over fifty years, and a list of his writings would make a lengthy paper. At 
present he is engaged in writing his autobiography. He lives in a very pretty stone house 
on Beacon Street, Boston, Massachusetts. 




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STANZAS. 



c^gTRAXGE! that one lightly whisper'd 
^ tone 

Is far, far sweeter unto me 
Than all the sounds that kiss the earth, 

Or breathe along the sea; 
But, lady, when thy voice I greet, 
Not heavenly music seems so sweet. 

I look upon the fair, blue skies, 

And naught but empty air I see; 

But when I turn me to thine eyes, 
It seemeth unto me 

Ten thousand angels spread their wings 

Within those little azure rings. 



The lily hath the softest leaf 

That ever western breeze hath fann'd, 
But thou shalt have the tender flower, 
So I may take thy hand ; 
That little hand to me doth yield 
More joy than all the broider'd field. 

Oh, lady! there be many things 

That seem right fair, below, above; 

But sure not one among them all 
Is half so Sweet as love; 

Let us not pay our vows alone, 

But join two altars both in one. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 




ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 



ejj you ask wllat the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, 

The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love !" 
In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong; 
What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, 
And singing and loving— all come back together, 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
That he sings, and he sings; and forever sings he, 
"I love my love, and my love loves me!" 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 




A PARABLE. 



oAMOKN and footsore was the Prophet 
J& 6 When he reached the holy hill ; 
"God has left the earth," he murmured, 
"Here his presence lingers still. 

God of all the olden prophets, 
Wilt thou talk with me no more? 

Have I not as truly loved thee 
As the chosen ones of yore? 

Hear me, guider of my fathers, 
Lo, an humble heart is mine; 

By thy mercy I beseech thee, 
Grant thy servant but a sign !" 

Bowing then his head, he listened 
For an answer to his prayer; 

No loud burst of thunder followed, 
Not a murmur stirred the air. 

But the tuft of moss before him 

Opened while he waited yet, 
And from out the rock's hard bosom 

Sprang a tender violet. 



"God! I thank thee," said the Prophet, 
"Hard of heart and blind was I, 

Looking to the holy mountain 
For the gift of prophecy. 

Still thou speakest with thy children 

Freely as in Eld sublime, 
Humbleness and love and patience 

Give dominion over Time. - 

Had I trusted in my nature, 
And had faith in lowly things, 
Thou thyself would st then have sought me, 
And set free my spirit's wings. 

But I looked for signs and wonders 
That o'er men should give me sway; 

Thirsting to be more than mortal, 
I was even less than clay. 

Ere I entered on my journey, 

As I girt my loins to start, 
Ran to me my little daughter, 

The beloved of my heart. 



In her hand she held a flower, 
Like to this as like may be, 
Which beside my very threshold 
She had plucked and brought to me." 

James Russell Lowell. 
100 



WINTER. 



(^^EHE wintry west extends his blast, 
Jgi And hail and rain does blaw; 
g^> Or, the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blindingsleet and snaw: 
"While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 
And pass the heartless day. 

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May; 




101 




102 




103 




104 




LOVE-SONG. 

fEARER to thy mother-heart, 
Simple Nature, press me, 
Let me know thee as thou art, 

Fill my soul and bless me ! 
I have loved thee long and well, 

I have loved thee heartily ; 

Shall I never with thee dwell, 

Never be at one with thee? 

Inward, inward to thy heart, 

Kindly Nature, take me, 
Lovely even as thou art, 

Full of loving make me ! 
Thou knowest naught of dead-cold 
forms, 

Knowest naught of littleness, 
Lifeful Truth thy being warms, 

Majesty and earnestness. 



Homeward, homeward to thy 
heart, 
Dearest Nature call me ; 
Let nohalfness, no mean part, 

Any longer thrall me! 
I will be thy lover true, 
"Will be a faithful soul, 
Then circle me, then look me 

through, 
Fill me with the mighty 
"Whole. 
James Russell Lowell. 




105 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 



JHE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
> The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 



Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bo w'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 



Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his droniilg flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. 



Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 



Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 

Await alike th' inevitable hour. 
The paths of glory lead but to the gj-ave. 

















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Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallows twittering from the straw-built 
shed, 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 



For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care; 

No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 



Nor 3'ou, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise; 

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted 
vault, 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 



Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust? 

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death? 



Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 



100 



But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 



The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray ; 

Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 




Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 

'Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 



107 



Yet even these bones from insult to protect, 
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture 
deck'd, 
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply ; 
And many a holy text around she strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to die, 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 



On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; 

Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. 



Off 



Eor thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. 



Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 



There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 

His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

Hard by yon wood, now smiles as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 



One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;" 



l\ 






V 
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109 




THE SONG OF THE UNMARRIED. 



i|f:'" <-' 



c^fcHE winds of March are humming 

gQ, Their parting song, their parting song, 

And summer skies are coming, 

And days grow long, and days grow long. 
I watch, but not in gladness, 

Our garden-tree, our garden-tree ; 
It buds in sober sadness, 
Too soon for me, too soon for me. 
My second winter's over, 
Alas! and I, alas! and I 
Have no accepted lover: 
Don't ask me why, don'i ask me why. 

'Tis not asleep or idle 

That Love has been, that Love has been, 
For many a happy bridal 

The year has seen, the year has seen ; 
I've done a bridemaid's duty 

At three or four, at three or four; 
My best bouquet had beauty, 
Its doner more, its doner more. 
My second winter's over, 
Alas! and I, alas! and I 
Have no accepted lover: 
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 



His flowers my bosom shaded 

One sunny day, one sunny day; 
The next they fled and faded, 

Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet. 
In vain, at ball and parties, 

I've thrown my net, I've thrown my net; 
This waltzing, watching heart is 
Uuchosen yet, unchosen yet. 
My second winter's over, 
Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
Have no accepted lover: 
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 

They tell me there is no hurry 

For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring; 
And I'm too young to marry: 

'Tis no such thing, 'tis no such thing. 
The next springtides. will dash on 

My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year; 
It puts me in a passion, 
Oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! oh, dear! 
My second winter's over, 
Alas ! and I, alas ! and I 
Have no accepted lover: 
Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. 
Fitz-Gheene Halleck. 




■PNV 
110 




Ill 




112 




TO THE RIVER. 

— * — 



?AIR river! in thy bright, clear flow 



& Of crystal, wandering water, 

Thou art an emblem of thy glow 

Of beauty— the unhidden heart— 
The playful maziness of art 

In old Alberto's daughter; 



113 



But when within thy wave she looks, 

Which glistens then, and trembles- 
Why, then, the prettiest of brooks 

Her worshiper resembles ; 
For in his heart, as in thy stream, 

Her image deeply lies— 
His heart, which trembles at the beam 

Of her soul-searching eyes. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 




i HEARD the trailing garments of 
the Night 
Sweep through her marble halls! 
I saw her sable skirts all fringed 

with light 
From the celestial walls! 



I felt her presence, by its spell of might, 

Stoop o'er me from above ; 
The calm, majestic presence of the Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes, 
That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, 

Like some old poet's rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air 

My spirit drank repose; 
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there — 

From those deep cisterns flow. 

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear 

What man has borne before! 
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 
The welcomed, the thrice-prayed-for, the most fair, 

The best-beloved Night! 

Henry "W. Longfellow. 



THE NIGHT BIRD. 



J^nr FLOATING, a floating 
4fo- Across the sleeping sea, 
All night I hear the singing bird 
Upon the topmost tree. 

"Oh, came you off the isles of Greece, 

Or off the banks of Seine; 
Or off some tree in forests free, 

Which fringe the western main?" 

"I came not off the Old World, 

Nor yet from off the New, 
But I am one of the birds of God, 

Which sing the whole night through." 

"Oh, sing and wake the dawning— 

Oh, whistle for the wind; 
The night is long, the current strong, 

My boat it lags behind. 

"The current sweeps the Old World, 
The current sweeps the New; 

The wind will blow, the dawn will glow, 
Ere thou hast sailed them through." 
Charles Kingsley. 



114 




THE SPARROW'S NEST. 



JJDEHOLD, wichin the leafy shade, 

i\2 Those bright blue eggs together laid! 

^> On me the chance-discover'd sight 

Gleam'd like a vision of delight. 
I started— seeming to espy 
The home and shelter'd bed — 
The sparrow's dwelling, which, hard by 
My father's house, in wet or dry, 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together visited. 



She look'd at it as if she fear'd it; 
Still wishing, dreading to be near it; 
Such heart was in her, being then 
A little prattler among men. 
The blessing of my later years 
Was with me when a boy : 
She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; 
And humble cares, and delicate fears; 
A heart, the fountain of sweet tears ; 
And love, and thought, and joy. 

William Wordsworth. 



115 




FEOM "KING JOHN." 

O gild refined gold, to paint the lily, 
To throw a perfume on the violet, 
To smooth the ice, or add another hue 
"Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light 
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to- 

garnish, 
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess. 

Shakspere- 



116 




117 




SEVEN TIMES ONE. 



HERE'S no dew left on the daisies and 

clover, 

There's no rain left in heaven. 
I've said my "seven times" over and over — 
Seven times one are seven. 



I am old— so old I can write a letter; 

My birthday lessons are done. 
The lambs play always — they know 
better; 

They are only one times one. 



OMoon! in the night I have seen you sailing 
And shining so round and low. 

You were bright — ah, bright — but your 
light is failing; 
You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon! have you done something 
wrong in heaven, 
That God has hidden your face ? 
I hope, if you have, you will soon be for- 
given, 
And shine again in your place. 

O velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow — 

You've powdered your legs with gold. 

O brave marsh Mary -buds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold! 



O Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

O Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple 
clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 



And show me your nest, with the young 
ones in it — 
I will not steal them away: 
I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 
I am seven times one to-day. 

Jean Ingelow. 



118 




DAISY. 



^ITH little here to do or see 
jS Of things that in the great world be, 
Sweet Daisy! oft I talk to thee, 
For thou art worthy. 
Thou unassuming commonplace 
Of nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace, 
Which Love makes for thee! 



119 



Sweet, silent creature ! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature! 

William Wordsworth. 




120 




MAIDENHOOD. 



JMAIDEN! with the meek brown eyes, 
^y? In whose orbs a shadow lies 
Like the dusk in evening skies! 

Thou whose locks outshine the sun- 
Golden tresses wreathed in one, 
As the braided streamlets run ! 

Standing, with reluctant feet, 
Where the brook and river meet, 
Womanhood and childhood fleet! 

Gazing, with a timid glance, 
On the brooklet's swift advance, 
On the river's broad expanse ! 

Deep and still, that gliding stream 
Beautiful to thee must seem 
As the river of a dream. 

Then why pause with indecision, 
When bright angels in thy vision 
Beckon thee to fields Elysian? 

Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
As the dove, with startled eye, 
Sees the falcon's shadow fly? 

Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
That our ears perceive no more, 
Deafened by the cataract's roar? 



O thou child of many prayers! 

Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares! 

Care and age come unawares ! 

Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
Morning rises into noon, 
May glides onward into June. 

Childhood is the bough where slumbered 
Birds and blossoms many-numbered — 
Age, that bough with snows encumbered^ 

Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
When the young heart overflows, 

To embalm that tent of snows. 

• 

Bear a lily in thy hand ; 

Gates of brass cannot withstand 

One touch of that magic wand. 

Bear through sorrow, wrong and ruth, 
In thy heart the dew of youth, 
On thy lips the smile of truth. 

Oh, that dew, like balm, shall steal 
Into wounds that cannot heal, 
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal; 

And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
Into many a sunless heart, 
For a smile of God thou art. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



121 




AIR the face of orient day, 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely far her beauty blows. 



Sweet the lai-k's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 

But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 



The flower-enamour'd, busy bee, 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 

Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lips; 



But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant insect, rove! 

Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss! 
For, oh! my soul is parch 'd with love! 

Robert Burns. 




I 




MARY MORISON. 



fH, Mary, at thy window be ! 
It is the wished, the trysted hour! 
Those smiles and glances let me see 

That make the miser's treasure poor: 
How blithely wad I bide the stoure, 

A weary slave frae sun to sun, 
Could I the rich reward secure, 
The lovely Mary Morison. 



Yestreen when to the trembling- string 

The dance gaed through the lighted ha' 
To thee my fancy took its wing — 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw : 
Though this was fair, and that was braw, 

And yon the toast of a' the town, 
I sighed, and said amang them a', 

"Ye are na Mary Morison." 

Oh, Mary, canst thou wreck his peace 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Whase only faut is loving thee? 
If love for love thou wilt na gie, 

At least be pity to me show; 
A thought ungentle canna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 

Robert Burns. 



THE MAY QUEEN. 



vr 



^ly^OU must wake and call me early, call me early, 

y>ij3 mother, dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 

New-year; 
Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest, 

merriest day ; 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

There's many a black, black eye, they say, but 

none so bright as mine; 
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and 

Caroline, 
But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they 

say, 
So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall 

never wake, 
If you do not call me loud when the day begins to 

break ; 
But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and 

garlands gay, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I 
see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel- 
tree? 

He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him 
yesterday — 

But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in 

white, 
And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of 

light. 
They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what 

they say, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

They say he's dying all for love, but that can never 

be; 
They say his heart is breaking, mother— what is 

that to me? 
There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer 

day, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Little Eme shall go with me to-morrow to the 

green, 
And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made 

the Queen ; 
For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from 

far away, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 

I'm to be Queen o' the May. 



124 





The honeysuckle 'round the porch has wov'n 
its wavy bowers, 
| And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint 
sweet cuckoo-flowers; 
And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in 

swamps and hollow gray, 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

The night winds come and go, mother, upon the 

meadow-grass; 
And the happy stars above them seem to brighten 

as they pass, 
There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the 

livelong day. 
And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and 

still, 
And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the 

hill, 
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily 

glance and play, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

So you must wake and call me early, call me 

v early, mother, dear, 
To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad 

New-year ; 
To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, 

merriest day, 
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, 
I'm to be Queen o' the May. 

Alfred Tennyson. 



i i ' 




i.4, 1 



4JP 



(to; 








126 






T is the miller's daughter, 
•<§ And she has grown so dear, so dear, 
That I would be the jewel 

That trembles at her ear; 
For, hid in ringlets day and night, 
I'd touch her neck so warm and white. 



And I would be the girdle 
About her dainty, dainty waist, 

And her heart would beat against m 
In sorrow and in rest; 

And I should know if it beat right, 

I'd clasp it round so close and tight. 



And I would be the necklace, 
And all day long to fall and rise 

Upon her balmy bosom 
With her laughter or her sighs; 

And I would lie so light, so light, 

I scarce should be unclasped at night. 

Alfred Tennyson 



127 




THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO 
HIS SOUL. 

e£j@jITAL spark of heavenly flame! 

j^? Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame! 
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying! 
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
And let me languish into life! 



Hark! they whisper: angels say, 
Sister spirit, come away ! 
What is this absorbs me quite? 
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? 
Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 



The world recedes ; it disappears ! 
Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 

With sounds seraphic ring: 
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! 
O Grave! where is thy victory? 

O Death! where is thy sting? 

Pope. 



128 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



ALFRED TENNYSON was the third of twelve children. He was born in 1809, in 
sS> Somerby, Lincolnshire, England. He studied at Trinity College, Cambridge. While 
in the university he published, in conjunction with his brother Charles, a small volume, 
"Poems by Two Brothers." A little later he won a medal for a poem in blank verse on 
"Timbuctoo." In 1830, still an undergraduate, he issued "Poems Chiefly Lyrical." This 
production did not bring the young poet into any prominent notice, but ten years or more 
later (1842), when he had published two volumes of "English Idylls and Other Poems," 
containing "Locksley Hall," etc., was he recognized as one who had some right to stand at 
the head of English poets. "In Memoriam," "Locksley Hall," "The Holy Grail" and 
"Enoch Arden" are among his last productions. His style is a marvel of exactness and 
finish. His poetry has gathered largely the elements of all the poetic arts. He was made 
Poet Laureate in 1850. He will stand in coming time as one of the few great poets who 
embodied the Christlike in his work. Dante's "Inferno," Milton's "Paradise Lost" and 
Tennyson's "In Memoriam" stand out, and will ever stand out, as great, if not the greatest, 
works of poetical minds. Mr. Tennyson was made a lord in 1883, and died October 6, 1892, 
his soul taking its flight to heaven seemingly along a sunbeam which at that moment fell 
across the death-bed. 




130 




A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 



fWAS the night before Christmas, when all 
through the house 
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; 
The stockings were nestled by the chimney with 

care, 
In hopes that St. Nicholas would be there; 
The children were nestled all snug in their beds, 
While visions of sugar plums danced in their 

heads; 
And Mama in her kerchief and I in my cap, 
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's 

nap, 
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, 
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter. 
Away to the window I flew like a flash, 
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash. 
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow, 
Gave the luster of midday to objects below, 
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, 
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, 
With a little old driver, so lively and quick, 
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. 
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came, 
And he whistled and shouted and called them by 

name; 
"Now, Dasher, now, Dancer, now, Prancer and 

Vixen, 
On, Comet, on, Cupid, on, Doder and Blitzen — 
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all." 
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, 



When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, 
So, up to the housetop the coursers they flew, 
With the sleighful of toys, and St. Nicholas, too. 
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof 
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof. 
As I drew in my head, and was turning around, 
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a 

bound. 
He was dressed in fur from his head to his foot, 
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 

soot; 
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 
And he looked just like a peddler just opening his 

pack. 
His eyes how they twinkled, his dimples how 

merry. 
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a 

cherry; 
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 
And the beard on his chin was as white as the 

snow. 
The stump of a pipe he held in his teeth, 
And the smoke, it encircled his head like a 

wreath, 
He had a broad face and a round little belly, 
That shook, when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of 

jelly. 
He was chubby and plump; a right jolly old elf; 
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of 

myself. 



132 




Gt^OR a day and a night Love sang to us, played with us, 
■jis Folded us round from the dark and the light; 

And our hearts were fulfilled of the music he made 
with us, 
Made with our hearts and our lips while he stayed with us, 
Stayed in mid passage his pinions from flight 
For a day and a night. 

From his foes thatkept watch, with his wings had he hidden us, 

Covered us close from the eyes that would smite, 
From the feet that had tracked and the tongue that had 

chidden us, 
Sheltering in shades of myrtles forbidden us, 
Spirit and flesh growing one with delight 
For a day and a night. 

But his wings will not rest, and his feet will not stay for us; 

Morning is here in the joy of its might ; 
With his breath has he sweetened a night and a day for us; 
Now let him pass, and the myrtles make way for us ; 
Love can but last in us here at his height 
For a day and a night. 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 



134 




THE IVY GREEN. 



c <aH, a dainty plant is the ivy green, 

$? That creepeth o'er ruins old ! 

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, 

In his cell so lone and cold. 
The walls must be crumbled, the stones 
decayed, 
To pleasure his dainty whim; 
And the moldering dust that years have 
made 
Is a merry meal for him. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 



Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no 
wings, 
And a stanch old heart has he! 
How closely he twineth, how tightly he 
clings 
To his friend, the huge oak-tree! 
And slyly he traileth along the ground, 

And his leaves he gently waves, 
And he joyously twines and hugs around 
The rich mold of dead men's graves. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled, and their works 
decayed, 
And nations scattered been ; 
But the stout old ivy shall never fade 

From its hale and hearty green. 
The brave old plant in its lonely days 

Shall fatten upon the past; 
For the stateliest building man can raise 
Is the ivy's food at last. 
Creeping where no life is seen, 
A rare old plant is the ivy green. 

Charles Dickens. 



THE WINGED WORSHIPERS. 



<?^AY, guiltless pair, 
"0^ What seek ye from the fields of 

heaven ? 
Ye have no need of prayer, 
Ye have no sins to be forgiven. 



Why perch ye here, 

Where mortals to their Maker bend? 
Can your pure spirits fear 

The God ye never could offend? 

Ye never knew 

The crimes for which we come to weep. 
Penance is not for you, 

Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 



To you 'tis given 

To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; 
Beneath the arch of heaven 

To chirp away a life of praise. 



Then spread each wing, 

Far, far above, o'er lakes and lands, 
And join the choirs that sing 

In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 



Or, if you stay, 

To note the consecrated hour, 
Teach me the airy way, 

And let me try your envied power. 



136 










Above the crowd, 

On upward wings could I but fly, 
I'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 

And seek the stars that gem the sky. 



'Twere heaven indeed 

Through fields of trackless light to soar, 
On nature's charms to feed, 

And nature's own great God adore. 

Charles Sprague. 



137 




HER LIKENESS. 



j$m? GIRL, who has so many wilful 
J%t ways 
T^v she would have caused Job's 

patience to forsake him ; 
Yet is so rich in all that's girlhood's 

praise, 
Did Job himself upon her goodness 
gaze, 
A little better she would surely 
make him. 



Yet is this girl I sing in naught 
uncommon, 
And very far from angel yet, I 
trow. 

Her faults, her sweetness, are pure- 
ly human ; 

Yet she's more lovable as simple 
woman 
Than any one diviner that I 
know. 

138 



Therefore I wish that she may 
safely keep 
This wommanhede, and change 
not, only grow; 
From maid to matron, youth to age, 

may creep, 
And in perennial blessedness, still 
reap 
On every hand of that which she 
doth sow. 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 



POEM every flower is, 

And every leaf a line, 
And with delicious memories 
They fill this heart of mine: 
No living blossoms are so clear 
As these dead relics treasured here; 
One tells of love, of friendship one, 
Love's quiet after-sunset time, 
When the all-dazzling light is gone, 
And, with the soul's low vesper-chime, 
O'er half its heaven doth outflow 
A holy calm and steady glow. 
Some are gay feast-song, some are dirges, 
In some a joy with sorrow inirges ; 
One sings the shadowed woods, and one 

the roar 
Of ocean's everlasting surges, 
Tumbling upon the beach's hard-beat 

floor, 
Or sliding backward from the shore 
To meet the landward waves and slowly 

plunge once more. 
O flowers of grace, I bless ye all 
By the dear faces ye recall ! . \ ', ==v- = "^ 

James Russell Lowell. V ~ 







_ . j . 



Bk ft 



li&lfii 





THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 



c$![OW dear to this heart are the scenes of my 
S& childhood, 

When fond recollection presents them to view ! 
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild- 
wood, 

And every loved spot which my infancy knew — 
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood 
by it, 

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; 
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 



That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; 
For often, at noon, when returned from the 
field, 
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I siezed it, with hands that were 
glowing! 
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, 
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the 
well; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. 



How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to 
leave it, 
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusivelyjswell, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 
Samuel Woodwoeth. 
140 




TO A BUTTERFLY. 



cASTAY near me— do not take thy flight; 
ir? A little longer stay in sight! 
rff 3 Much converse do I find in thee, 
Historian of my infancy! 
Dead times revive in thee; 
Thou bring'st, gay creature as thou art, 
A solemn image to my heart, 
My father's family! 
Oh ! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 



141 



The time, when in our childish plays. 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together chased the butterfly! 
A very hunter did I rush 
Upon the prey— with leaps and springs 
I follow'd on from brake to bush ; 
But she, God love her! fear'd to brush 
The dust from off its wings. 

William "Wordsworth. 




PRELUDE TO THE VOICES OF THE NIGHT. 



fLEASANT it was, when woods were green, 
And winds were soft and low, 
To lie amid some sylvan scene, 
Where, the long drooping boughs between, 
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen 
Alternate come and go. 



Or, where the denser grove receives 

No sunlight from above, 
But the dark foliage interweaves 
In one unbroken roof of leaves, 
Underneath whose sloping eaves 

The shadows hardly move. 



Beneath some patriarchal tree 

I lay upon the ground; 
His hoary arms uplifted he, 
And all the broad leaves over me 
Clapped their little hands in glee, 

With one continuous sound. 



A slumberous sound— a sound that brings 

The feelings of a dream — 
As of innumerable wings, 
As, when a bell no longer swings, 
Faint the hollow murmur rings 

O'er meadow, lake and stream. 



And dreams of that which cannot die, 

Bright visions came to me, 
As lapped in thought I used to lie, 
And gaze into the summer sky, 
Where the sailing clouds went by, 
Like ships upon the sea. 



Dreams that the soul of youth engage 

Ere fancy has been quelled; 

Old legends of the monkish page, 

Traditions. of the saint and sage, 

Tales that have the rime of age, 

And chronicles of eld. 



And, loving still these quaint old themes, 

Even in the city's throng 
I feel the freshness of the streams, 
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams, 
Water the green land of dreams, 

The holy land of song. 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



142 




EVENING. 



fHE sun is set ; the swallows are asleep ; 
The bats are flitting fast in the gray 
air; 
The slow, soft toads out of damp corners 
creep, 
And evening's breath, wandering here 
and there 
Over the quivering surface of the stream, 
Wakes not one ripple from its silent dream. 

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, 
Nor damp within the shadow of the tries : 
Ihe wind is intermitting, dry and light- 
And in the inconstant motion of the 
breeze 
The dust and straws are driven up and down , 
And whirled about the pavement of the 
town. 

Within the surface of the fleeting river 
The wrinkled image of the city lay, ' 

Immovably unquiet, and forever 
It trembles, but it never fades away; 

Go to the ( r ' 

You, being changed, will find it then as 
now. 

The chasm in which the sun is sunk is shut 
±Jy darkest barriers of enormous cloud, 
.Like mountain over mountain huddled— 
but 
Growing and movingupward in a crowd, 
And over it a space of watery blue, 
wmcn the keen evening star is shining 
through. 

Pebcy Bysshe Shelley. 



143 




144 




145 



A WORD TO THE WISE. 



Syl^HEN spring with sunny days comes 

in, 
Then flowers to burgeon and bloom begin ; 
When the moon has her radiant course 

begun, 
The stars swim after her one by one; 
When a pair of sweet eyes on the poet 

beams, 




From the depths of his soul songs gush in 
streams ; 

But songs and star's and flowers of all dyes, 

And moonbeams and sunshine and sweet- 
est eyes — 

Be as fond of this sort of thing as you 
may— 

To make up a world go a very short way. 
Heine's Book of Songs. 



146 




ARGUMENT 



ife'EN as the bird, who midst the leafy bower 

i ir J Has, in her nest, sat darkling through the 

kP r night, 

With her sweet brood; impatient to descry 

Their wished looks, and to bring home their food. 

In the fond quest unconscious of her toil : 

She, of the time prevenient, on the spray 

That overhangs their couch, with wakeful gaze 

Expects the sun ; nor ever till the dawn, 

Removeth from the east her eager ken : 

So stood the.dame erect, and bent her glance 

Wistfully on that region, where the sun 

Abateth most his speed; that, seeing her 

Suspense and wondering, I became as one 

In whom desire is waken'd, and the hope 

Of somewhat new to come fills with delight. 

Short space ensued ; I was not held, I say, 
Long in expectance, when I saw the heaven 
Wax more and more resplendent; and, "Behold," 
Cried Beatrice, "the triumphal hosts 
Of Christ, and all the harvest gather'd in, 
Made ripe by these revolving spheres," Meseem'd, 
That, while she spake, her image all did burn; 
And in her eyes such fullness was of joy, 
As I am fain to pass unconstrued by. 

As in the calm full moon, when Trivia smiles, 
In peerless beauty, 'mid the eternal nymphs, 
That paint through all its gulfs the blue profound; 
In the bright pre-eminence so saw I there 
O'er million lamps a sun, from whom all drew 
Their radiance, as from ours the starry train : 
And through the living light, so lustrous glow'd 
The substance, that my ken undured it not. 

Dante. 



147 





Yes, sometimes even here are found 
Those who can touch the chords of love, 

And wake a glad and holy sound, 
Like that which fills the courts above. 

It is as when a traveler hears, 
In a strange land, his native tongue, 

A voice he loved in happier years, 
A song which once his mother Dung. 

We part; the sea may roll between, 
While we through different climates roam; 

Sad days— a life— may intervene; 
But we shall meet again at home. 

Andrews Norton. 




148 




149 




150 



A FAREWELL. 



[Y fairest child, I have no song to 

give you; 
No lark could pipe to skies so dull 
and grey : 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can 
leave you 

For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will 
be clever; 
Do noble things, not dream them, 
all day long: 
And so make life, death, and that vast 
forever 

One grand, sweet song. 
Chaeles Kingsley. 




LOVE. 



cftATHEN the tree of Love is budding first, 
YiSs Ere yet its leaves are green, 
jIqf Ere yet, by shower and sunbeam nursed 
Its infant life has been ; 
The wild bee's slightest touch might wring 

The buds from off the tree, 
As the gentle dip of the swallow's wing 
Breaks the bubbles on the sea. 



But when its open leaves have found 

A home in the free air, 
Pluck them, and there remains a wound 

That ever rankles there. 
The blight of hope and happiness 

Is felt when fond ones part, 
And the bitter tear that follows is 

The life-blood of the heart. 

Fitz-Greenb Halleck. 



151 



TO A DEAD TREE. 



fHE dead tree bears; each dried-up bough 
With leaves is overgrown, 
And wears a living drapery now 
Of verdure not his own. 



The worthless stock a use has found, 
The unsightly branch a grace ; 

As climbing first, then dropped around, 
The green shoots interlace. 




So round that Grecian mystic rod 
To Hermes' hand assigned — 

The emblem of a helping God — 
First leaves, then serpents, twined. 

In thee a holier sign I view 
Than in Hebrew rods of power; 

Whether they to a serpent grew, 
Or budded into flower. 



This vine, but for thy mournful prop, 
Would ne'er have learned the way 

Thy ruined height to overtop, 
And mantle thy decay. 

O thou my soul ! thus train thy thought 

By Sorrow's barren aid! 
Deck with the charms that Faith has brought, 

The blights that Time has made. 



152 




153 




LINES. 



cLJOW richly glows the water's breast 
1f|l Before us, tinged with evening hues, 
£?? While, facing thus the crimson west, 
The boat her silent course pursues! 
And see how dark the backward stream, 

A little moment past so smiling! 
And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam, 
Some other loiterers beguiling. 



Such views the youthful bard allure; 

But, heedless of the following gloom, 
He deems their colors shall endure 

Till peace go with him to the tomb. 
And let him nurse his fond deceit, 

And what if he must die in sorrow ! 
Who would not cherish dreams so sweet, 

Though grief and pain may come to-morrow! 
William Wordsworth. 



154 




THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. 



riJJEVER wedding, ever wooing, 
fef? Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, 
Read you not the wrong you're doing 

In my cheek's pale hue? 
All my life with sorrow strewing, 

Wed, or cease to woo. 

Rivals banished, bosoms plighted, 
Still our days are disunited ; 
Now the lamp of hope is lighted, 

Now half quenched appears, 
Damped and wavering and benighted 

Midst my sighs and tears. 

Charms you call your dearest blessing, 
Lips that thrill at your caressing, 
Eyes a mutual soul confessing, 

Soon you'll make them grow 
Dim, and worthless your possessing, 

Not with age, but woe ! 

Thomas Campbell. 



SONNET— MUTATION. 

c^pHEY talk of short-lived pleasure — be it so — 
$&■ Pain dies as quickly; stern, hard-featured 

pain 
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. 

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; 

And after dreams of horror, comes again 
The welcome morning with its ray of peace. 

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, 
Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to 

cease ; 
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase 

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness: 

Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still 

release 
His young limbs from the chains that round 

him press. 
Weep not that the world changes— did it keep 
A stable changeless state, 'twere cause indeed 

to weep. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



155 




156 




CALM. 



-4- 



SHERE is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 
Music that gentler on the spirit lies, 
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful 

skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in 
sleep. 



Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from weariness? 
All things have rest: why should we toil alone? 
We only toil who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan, 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown; 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings, 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ; 
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 
"There is no joy but calm!" 

Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 

Alfbed Tennyson. 



157 




WHO HAS ROBBED THE OCEAN 
CAVE? 



[HO has robbed the ocean cave, 
To tinge thy lips with coral hue? 
Who, from India's distant wave, 

For thee those pearly treasures drew? 
Who, from yonder orient sky, 
Stole the morning of thine eye? 

Thousand charms thy form to deck, 
From sea, and earth, and air are torn ; 

Roses bloom upon thy cheek, 
On thy breath their fragrance borne ; 

Guard thy bosom from the day, 
Lest thy snows should melt away. 

But one charm remains behind, 
Which mute earth could ne'er impart; 

Nor in ocean wilt thou find, 
Nor in circling air, a heart; 

Fairest, wouldst thou perfect be, 
Take, oh, take that heart from me. 
John Shaw. 



TO A LADY. 



-cMAY, dearest Anna! why so grave? 
&$ I said, you have no soul, 'tis true! 
For what you are, you cannot have: 
'Tis I, that have one since I first had you ! 



I have heard of reasons manifold 
Why Love must need be blind, 

But this the best of all I hold— 
His eyes are in his mind. 

What outward form and features are 

He guesseth but in pari; 
But what within is good and fair 

He seeth with the heart. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



158 




TO F- 



-S S. O- 



-D. 



fHOU wouldst be loved? Then let thy heart 
From its present pathway part not! 
Being everything which now thou art, 

Be nothing which thou art not. 
So with the world thy gentle ways, 
Thy grace, thy more than beauty, 
Shall be an endless theme of praise, 
And love— a simple duty. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 
159 




All the birds are singing o'er us— 
Tell me, who can be the leader 
In this green and forest chorus? 



Can it be the gray old plover, 
Wise nods evermore renewing? 

Or yon pedant, who is ever 
In such measured time coo-cooing? 



Can it be yon stork, the grave one, 

His director's airs betraying, 
And his long leg rattling loudly, 

Whilst the music's round him playing 



No, the forest concert's leader 
In my own heart hath his station, 

All the while he's beating time there- 
Amor is his appellation. 

Heine's Book of Songs. 



160 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 



®-^)AI,PH WALDO EMERSON was born in Boston, Massachusetts, May 25, 1803. This 
X\ distinguished American author was the descendant of seven generations of minis- 

ters. He was the second of five sons of the Reverend William Emerson, of the 
First Church in Boston. Neither in grammar school nor while at Harvard did he show any- 
unusual ability. For some time he taught and studied theology under Dr. Channing. In 1829 
he was associate pastor of the Second Church in Boston. " His preaching was eloquent, simple 
and effective. " He was active during this period of his life in political and philanthropic 
movements. In 1832 he resigned the ministerial work on account of some views of his which 
did not harmonize with those of his church and people. The following year he went abroad, 
meeting Coleridge, Wordsworth and Carlyle. Upon his return to America in 1834, he entered 
the lecture field, which he found better suited to his talents. His views were very pronounced 
and somewhat unusual, so that he was regarded by "practical people" in the community in 
which he lived as "crazy, revolutionary, or a fool who did not know his own meaning." In 
1847 Mr. Emerson again visited England, this time on a lecturing tour, and was enthusiasti- 
cally received. In 1850 his " Representative Men" was published. He became more and 
more recognized as a great thinker, and the demand for his writings constantly grew. When 
James Russel Lowell became the first editor of The Atlantic Monthly, Mr. Emerson contributed 
largely to its pages. Among his contributions were some twenty-eight poems. He was 
busy in his work almost to the time of his death, April 27, 1S82. His books are always 
suggestive of thought, his poetry embodies right ideals, and although Emerson will probably 
not again be as popular as he was years ago, when it was a "fad" to read his works, 
thinking men will ever find food for thought in his works. 




162 




INCLUSIONS. 



g-MH, wilt thou have my hand, Dear, to 

r J^ lie along in thine? 

As a little stone in a running stream, it 

seems to lie and pine! 
Now drop the poor, pale hand, Dear, . . 

unfit to plight with thine. 



Oh, wilt thou have my cheek, Dear, drawn 

closer to thine own? 
My cheek is white, my cheek is worn, by 

many a tear run down. 
Now leave a little space, Dear, . . lest it 

should wet thine own. 



Oh, must thou have my soul, Dear, com- 

. mingled with thy soul? — 
Red grows the cheek, and warm the hand, . . 

the part is in the whole ! . . 
Nor hands nor cheeks keep separate, when 
soul is joined to soul. 
Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 



FROM THE SPANISH OF IGLESIAS. 

JSWLEXIS calls me cruel ; 
4jfr- The rifted crags that hold 
The gathered ice of winter, 
He says, are not more cold. 

When even the very blossoms 
Around the fountain's brim, 

And forest walks, can witness 
The love I bear to him. 

I would that I could utter 
My feelings without shame; 

And tell him how I love him, 
Nor wrong my virgin fame. 

Alas! to seize the moment 
When heart inclines to heart, 

And press a suit with passion 
Is not a woman's part. 

If man comes not to gather 
The roses where they stand, 

They fade among their foliage; 
They cannot seek his hand. 
William Cullen Bryant. 




164 




165 




LINES BY THE LAKESIDE. 



f?HIS placid lake, my gentle girl, 
^ Be emblem of thy life, 
As full of peace and purity, 

As free from care and strife; 
No ripple on its tranquil breast 

That dies not with the day, 
No pebble in its darkest depths, 
But quivers in its ray. 



And see, how every glorious form, 

And pageant of the skies, 
Reflected from its glassy face, 

A mirror'd image lies; 
So be thy spirit ever pure, 

•To God and virtue given, 
And thought and word and action bear 

The imagery of heaven. 

George W. Doane. 



166 




167 




' &f^0^ {// IM'C 



P 7 P 



TO MY INFANT SON. 



t^HOU happy, happy elf! 

$i, (But stop, first let me kiss away that tear), 

Thou tiny image of myself! 

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear), 
Thou merry, laughing sprite, 
With spirits, feather light, 
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin; 
(My dear, the child is swallowing a pin!) 



Thou little tricksy Puck ! 

With antic toys so funnily bestuck, 

Light as the singing bird that rings the air — 

(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) 

Thou darling of thy sire ! 

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!) 

Thou imp of mirth and joy! 
In love's dear chain so bright a link, 

Thou idol of thy parents— (Drat the boy! 
There goes my ink.) 



Thou cherub, but of earth; 

Fit playfellow for fairies, by moonlight pale, 
In harmless sport and mirth, 

(That dog will bite him, if he pulls his tail!) 
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey 

From every blossom in the world that blows, 
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny — 

(Another tumble ! That's his precious nose !) 
Thy father's pride and hope! 

(He'll break that mirror with that skipping-rope!) 1 
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint. 
(Where did he learn that squint?) 



168 



Thou young domestic dove! 

(He'll have that ring off with another 

shove) 
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest! 
(Are these torn clothes his best?) 
Little epitome of man ! 
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his 

plan) 
Touched with the beauteous tints of 

dawning life, 
(He's got a knife ! 
Thou enviable being! 
.No storms, no clouds in thy blue sky 

foreseeing, 
Play on, play on, 
My elfin John ! 
Toss the light ball, bestride the stick — 
(I knew so many cakes would make him 

sick!) 
With fancies buoyant as the thistle- 
down, 
Prompting the face grotesque, and antic 

brisk, 
With many a lamb-like frisk ! 
(He's got the scissors, snipping at your 

gown !) 
Thou pretty opening rose! 
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your 

nose!) 
Balmy and breathing music like the 

south, 
(He really brings my heart into my 

mouth!) 
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove ; 
(I'll tell you what, my love, 
1 cannot write unless he's sent above.) 

Thomas Hood. 




FORTUNATE 



Happy, happy elf, 
When he has the pelf 
To bestow (upon himself) 
N. J. Clodfelteb. 



169 




IF IT BE TRUE THAT ANY 
BEAUTEOUS THING. 



[F it be true that any beauteous thing 
Raises the pure and just desire of 
man 
From earth to God, the eternal fount 

of all. 
Such I believe my love ; for as in her 
So fair, in whom I all besides forget, 
I view the gentle work of her Creator, 
I have no care for any other thing, 
Whilst thus I love. Nor is it marvelous, 
Since the effect is not of my own power, 
If the soul doth, by nature tempted 

forth, 
Enamored through the eyes, 
Repose upon the eyes which it resem- 

bleth, 
And through them riseth to the Primal 

Love, 
As to its end, and honors in admiring; 
For who adores the Maker needs must 
love his work. 
Michael Angelo (Italian.) 

Translation of J. E. Taylor. 



OST thou idly ask to 

hear 
At what gentle sea- 
sons 
Nymphs relent, when lov- 
ers near 
Press the tenderest rea- 
sons? 
Ah, they give their faith 
too oft 
To the careless wooer; 
Maidens' hearts are always 
soft; 
Would that men's were 
truer! 

Woo the fair one, 
around 
Early birds are singing; 
When, o'er all the fragrant 
ground, 
Early herbs are springing ; 
When the brookside, bank 
and grove, 
All with blossoms laden, 
Shine with beauty, breathe 
of love- 
Woo the timid maiden. 



Woo her when, with rosy blush, 

Summer eve is sinking; 
When, on rills that softly gush, 

Stars are softly winking; 
When, through boughs that knit the 
bower. 

Moonlight gleams are stealing; 
Woo her, till the gentle hour 

Wake a gentler feeling. 

Woo her, when autumnal dyes 

Tinge the woody mountain ; 
When the drooping foliage lies 

In the weedy fountain ; 
Let the scene, that tells how fast 

Youth is passing over, 
Warn her, ere her bloom is past, 

To secure her lover. 

Woo her, when the north winds call 

At the lattice nightly ; 
When, within the cheerful hall, 

Blaze the fagots brightly; 
While the wintry tempest round 

Sweeps the landscape hoary. 
Sweeter in her ear shall sound 

Love's delightful story. 

William Cullen Bkyant. 



170 




SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. 



c^lF I had but two little wings, 
-^ And were a little feathery 
*& bird, 

To you I'd fly, my dear! 
But thoughts like these are idle 
things, 
And I stay hero. 



But in my sleep to you I fly : 
I'm always with you in my 
sleep ! 
The world is all one's own. 
But then one wakes, and where 
am I? 
All, all alone. 

171 



Sleep stays not, though a monarch 
bids : 
So I love to wake ere break of day ; 
For though my sleep be gone, 
Yet, while 'tis dark one shuts one's 
lids, 
And still dreams on. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 




MEDITATIVE POEMS. 



(JKEA, he deserves to find himself deceived, 

IfS Who seeks a Heart in the unthinking Man, 
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life 
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead : 
Nought sinks into the Bosom's silent depth. 
Quick sensibility of Pain and Pleasure 
Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul 
Warmeth the inner frame. 

Schillek. 



vSUNRISE ON THE HILXS. 



cm3> STOOD upon the hills, when heaven's wide 
<g arch 

Was glorious with the sun's returning march, 
And woods were brightened, and soft gales 
Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales. 
The clouds were far beneath me; bathed in light, 
They gathered midway round the wooded height, 
And, in their fading glory, shone 
Like hosts in battle overthrown, 
As many a pinnacle, with shifting glance, 
Through the gray mist thrust up its shattered 

lance, 
And rocking on the cliff was left 
The dark pine, blasted, bare and cleft. 
The veil of cloud was lifted, and below 
Glowed the rich valley, and the river's flow 
Was darkened by the forest's shade, 
Or glistened in the white cascade ; 
Where upward, in the mellow blush of day, 
The noisy bittern wheeled his spiral way. 



I heard the distant waters dash, 

I saw the current whirl and flash, 

And richly, by the blue lake's silver beach, 

The woods were bending with a silent reach. 

Then o'er the vale, with gentle swell, 

The music of the village bell 

Came sweetly to the echo-giving hills; 

And the wild horn, whose voice the woodland fills, 

Was ringing to the merry shout, 

That faint and far the glen sent out, 

Where, answering to the sudden shot, thin smoke, 

Through thick-leaved branches, from the dingle 

broke. 
If thou art worn and hard beset 
With sorrows, that thou wouldst forget, 
If thou wouldst read a lesson, that will keep 
Thy heart from fainting and thy soul from sleep, 
Go to the woods and hills ! No tears 
Dim the sweet look that Nature wears. 

Heney W. Longfellow. 



172 




^AINTLY as tolls the evening chime, 

Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep 
time. 
Soon as the woods on shore look dim, 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 



Why should we yet our sail unfurl? 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. 
But when the wind blows off the shore, 
Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar! 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 



Utawa's tide! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers, 
Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs! 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! 
Thomas Moore. 



174 




|V?H ! I yearn for tears all-burning, 
S3; Tears of love and gentle woe, 
i^And I tremble lest this yearning 
At last should overflow. 



Ah ! love's pangs, that sweetly languish, 

And love's bitter joy, so blest, 
Creep again, with heavenly anguish, 

Into my scarce healed breast. 

Heine's Book of Songs. 



175 




'WAS in the glorious month of May, 
When all the buds were blowing, 
I felt — ah me, how sweet it was — 
Love in my heart a-growing. 



'Twas in the glorious month of May, 
When all the birds were pairing, 

In burning words I told her all 
My yearning, my aspiring. 

Heine's Book of Songs. 



176 



FROM THE SPANISH OF VILLEGAS. 



fIS sweet in the green Spring, 
To gaze upon the wakening fields around; 
Birds in the thicket sing, 

Winds whisper, waters prattle from the ground; 
A thousand odors rise, 
Breathed up from blossoms of a thousand dies. 



Shadowy, and close, and cool, 

The pine and poplar keep their quiet nook; 
Forever fresh and full, 

Shines, at their feet, the thirst-inviting brook; 
And the soft herbage seems 
Spread for a place of banquets and of dreams. 



Thou, who alone art fair, • 

And whom alone I love, art far away. 
Unless thy smile be there, 

It makes me sad to see the earth so gay ; 
I care not if the train 
Of leaves, and flowers, and zephyrs go again. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



SONNET TO THE RIVER 
OTTER. 



^BEAR Native Brook! 
$y Streamlet of the West! 
How many various-fated years 

have past, 
What happy, and what mournful 
hours, since last 
I skimmed the smooth, thin stone 

along thy breast, 
Numbering its light leaps; yet so 

deep imprest 
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, 
that mine eyes 
I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
But straight with all their tints thy 
waters rise, 
Thy crossing plank, thy marge 
with willows gray, 
And bedded sand that veined with 

various dies 
Gleamed through thy 
bright transpar- 
ence ! On m y way, 
Visions of child- 
hood! oft have ye 
beguilded 
Bone manhood's cares, 
yet waking fond- 
est sighs ; 
Ah! that once more 
I were a careless 
child! 
Samuel Taylor 

Coleridge. 





THINE EYES STIEE SHINED. 



?HINE eyes still shined for me, though far 
[ I lonely roved the land or sea: 
^As I behold yon evening star, 
Which yet beholds not me. 



This morn I climb'd the misty hill, 
And roamed the pastures through ; 

How danced thy form before my path, 
Amidst the deep-eyed dew ! 



"When the redbird spread his sable wing, 

And show'd his side of flame- 
When the rosebud ripen'd to the rose— 

In both I read thy name. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 



178 




THE VILLAGE 
BLACKSMITH. 



^fjRTNDER a spreading chestnut- 
yfi* tree 

The village smithy stands; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 
With large and sinewy hands; 
. And the muscles of his brawny 
arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 



His hair is crisp, and black, and 
long, 
His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest 
sweat, 
He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the 
face, 
For he owes not any man. 



Week in, week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 



And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door; 
They love to see the naming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 



He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 



It sounds to him like her 
mother's voice, 
Singing in Paradise! 
He needs must think of her 
once more, 
How in the grave she lies; 
And with his hard, rough 
hand he wipes 
A tear out of his eyes. 



Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begin, 
Each evening sees it close; 

Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night's repose. 



Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 

Our fortunes must be wrought; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought! 

Henry W. Longfellow. 
179 




THE SNOW-STORM. 



fHE cold winds swept the mountain's height, 
And pathless was the dreary wild. 
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night 
A mother wander'd with her child; 
As through the drifting snow she press'd, 
The babe was sleeping on her breast. 

And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on, 

And deeper grew the drifting snow ; 
Her limbs were chill'd, her strength was gone, 

"Oh, God !" she cried in accents wild, 

"If I must perish, save my child!" 



She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, 
And bared her bosom to the storm, 

And round the child she wrapp'd the vest, 
And smiled to think her babe was warm. 

With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 

And sunk upon her snowy bed. 

At dawn a traveler passed by, 

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil; 
The frost of death was in her eye, 

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale. 
He moved the robe from off the child — 
The babe looked up and sweetly smiled ! 

Seba Smith. 



180 




181 



THE ANGLER'S WISH. 



c^d, IN these flowery meads would be, 
*t These crystal streams should solace me ; 
^ To whose harmonious bubbling noise 
I, with my angle, would rejoice, 
Sit here, and see the turtle-dove 
Court his chaste mate to acts of love; 

Or, on that bank, feel the west wind 
Breathe health and plenty; please my mind, 
To see sweet dewdrops kiss these flowers, 
And then washed off by April showers; 
Here, hear my kennasing a song: 
There, see a blackbird feed her young. 



Or a laverock build her nest; 

Here, give ray weary spirits rest, 

And raise my low-pitched thoughts above 

Earth, or what poor mortals love. 

Thus, free from lawsuits, and the noise 
Of princes' courts, I would rejoice; 

Or, with my Bryan and a book, 

Loiter long days near Shawford brook; 

There sit by him, and eat my meat; 

There see the sun both rise and set; 

There bid good-morning to next day; 

There meditate my time away; 
And angle on ; and beg to have 
A quiet passage to a welcome grave. 

IZAAK W ALTON. 




ANGLING. 



FROM "THE SEASONS." 



^rv'TUST in the dubious point, where with the pool 
■CJ is mixed the trembling stream, or where it boils 
^* Around the stone, or from the hollowed bank 
Reverted plays in undulating flow, 
There throw, nice-judging, the delusive fly; 
And as you lead it round in artful curve, 
With eye attentive mark the springing game. 
Straight as above the surface of the flood 
They wanton rise, or urged by hunger leap. 
Then fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook ; 
Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank, 



And to the shelving shore slow dragging some, 

With various hand proportioned to their force. 

If yet too young, and easily deceived, 

A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, 

Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space 

He has enjoyed the vital light of heaven, 

Soft disengage, and back into the stream 

The speckled infant throw. But should you lure 

From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots 

Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, 

Behooves you then to ply your finest art. 



182 




SONNET— MIDSUMMER. 



=^w POWER is on the earth and in the air, 
<ffi From which the vital spirit shrinks afraid, 

And shelters him, in nooks of deepest shade, 
From the hot steam and from the fiery glare. 
.Look forth upon the earth — her thousand plants 
Are smitten, even the dark sun-loving maize 
Faints in the field beneath the torrid blaze; 



The herd beside the shaded fountain pants; 

For life is driven from all the landscape brown; 
The bird has sought his tree, the snake his den, 
The trout floats dead in the hot stream, and men 

Drop by the sun-stroke in the populous town; 

As if the Day of Fire had dawned and sent 

Its deadly breath into the firmament. 

William Cullen Bryant. 



134 




FROM THE GERMAN. 

KNOW" a maiden fair to see, 
<|> Take care ! 
She can both false and friendly be, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 



She has two eyes, so soft and brown, 

Take care ! 
She gives a side glance and looks down, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee ! 



And she has hair of a golden hue, 

Take care ! 
And what she says, it is not true, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not. 
She is fooling thee ! 



She has a bosom as white as snow, 

Take care ! 
She knows how much it is best to show, 

Beware! Beware! 

Trust her not, 
She is fooling thee! 



She gives thee a garland woven fair, 

Take care! 
It is a fool's-cap for thee to wear, 

Beware ! Beware ! 

Trust her not, 
The is fooling thee! 

Henry W. Longfellow. 




186 




cMSTOW cruel are the parents 
& Who riches only prize, 
dy^Ajid, to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice! 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 
Become a wretched wife. 



The rav'ning hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

Awhile her pinion tries; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She thrusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet ! 

Robert Burns. 



188 




THE KISS. 



fMONG thy fancies tell me this: 
What is the thing we call a kiss?- 
I shall resolve ye what it is ; 

It is a creature horn and bred 
Between the lips all cherry red, 
By love and warm desires fed; 
And makes more soft the bridal bed. 



It is active flame, that flies 

First to the babies of the eyes, 

And charms them there with lullabies! 

And stills the bride, too, when she cries. 

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear, 
It frisks and flies— now here, now there; 
"Tis now far off, and then 'tis near; 
And here, and there, and everywhere. 



Has it a speaking virtue? — Yes. 
How speaks it, say ?*— Do you but this: 
Part your joined lips,then speaks your kiss; 
And this love's sweetest language is. 

Has it a body? — Ay, and wings, 
With thousand rare encolorings; 
And as it flies it gently sings; 
Love honey yields, but never stings. 

Robert Herrick. 



SWELL'S SOLILOQUY. 



tM DON'T appwove this hawid waw; 
■<g Those dweadful bannahs hurt 
my eyes; 
And guns and dwums are such a 
baw — 
Why don't the pawties compwa- 
mise? 



Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; 

But why must all the vulgah 
cwowd 
Pawsist in spawting unifawms, 

In cullahs so extremely loud? 



chawming cweatures 



heah the 
talk, 
Like patwons of the bloody wing, 
Of waw and all its dawty wawk — 
It doesn't seem a pwappah thing! 



I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night, 
To see her niece, Miss Mawy Hertz, 

And found her making— cwushing 
sight ! — 
The weddest kind of flannel shirts! 



And 



then the 

deahs! — 
I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow; 
Bai Jove! I weally have my feahs 
They wathah like the hawid waw! 




ladies — pwecious 




?HE clouds are blackening, the storm threaten- 
ing, 

The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan* 
Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching 
Thus in the dark night she singeth alone, 
Her eye upward roving: 
The world is empty, the heart is dead surely, 

In this world plainly all seemeth amiss; 
To thy heaven, Holy One, take home thy little one, 
I have partaken of all earth's bliss, 
Both living and loving. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 



190 




THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 



c^|P HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of 

$£ the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows 

brown and sear. 
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn 

leaves lie dead ; 
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's 

tread. 
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the 

shrubs the jay, 
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all 

the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that 

lately sprang and stood 
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous 

sisterhood? 
Alas ! they all are in their graves ; the gentle race 

of flowers 



Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and 

good of ours. 
The rain is falling where they lie; but the cold 

November rain 
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely 

ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long 

ago, 
And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the 

summer glow; 
But on the hill the goldenrod, and the aster in the 

wood, 
And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn 

beauty stood, 
Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as 

falls the plague on men, 
And the brightness of their smile was gone from 

upland, glade and glen. 

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still 

such days will come, 
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their 

winter home; , 
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though 

all the trees are still, 
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the 

rill, 
The south wind searches for the flowers whose 

fragrance late he bore, 
And sighs to find them in the wood and by tho 

stream no more. 



And then I think of one who in her youthful 

beauty died, 
The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by 

my side. 
In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the 

forests cast the leaf, 
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life 

so brief; 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young 

friend of ours, 
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the 

flowers. 

William Cullen Bkyant. 




191 




SUMMER SHOWER. 

A 



fHE rain is o'er. How dense and bright 
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! 
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, 
Contrasting with the deep blue sky ! 

In grateful silence earth receives 
The general blessing; fresh and fair, 

Each flower expands its little leaves, 
As glad the common joy to share. 

The soften'd sunbeams pour around 

A fairy light, uncertain, pale; 
The wind flows cool, the scented ground 

Is breathing odors on the gale. 

'Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, 
Methinks some spirit of the air 

Might rest to gaze below awhile, 
Then turn to bathe and revel there. 



The sun breaks forth— from off the scene, 
Its floating veil of mist is flung; 

And all the wilderness of green 
With trembling drops of light is hung. 

Now gaze on nature— yet the same- 
Glowing with life, by breezes fann'd, 

Luxuriant, lovely as she came, 
Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand. 

Hear the rich music of that voice, 
Which sounds from all below, above ; 

She calls her children to rejoice, 
And round them throws her arms of love. 

Drink in her influence — low-born care— 
And all the train of mean desire, 

Refuse to breathe this holy air, 
And 'mid this living light expire. 

Andrews Norton. 



192 




m ':% 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER was born December 17, 1807, near Haverhill, Mass- 
achusetts. A certain Thomas Whittier, of the Society of Friends, had settled in 
Haverhill in 1647, and from him the Quaker poet was descended. The early family 
history is surrounded by a cluster of legends, illustrating the kindness and great-heartedness 
which characterized the family. The poet's father was a farmer, and the young man attended 
the district school in winter and assisted in the work on the farm in summer. An eminent 
man recently said, " Happy America, whose great poets are also great saints." No poet has had 
a larger line of ancestors, whose chief trait was kindliness, and whose lives were the embodiment 
of devotion to truth and unquestioned religious faith. They were men with deep disdain for 
wrong, who saw in their fellows, white, red or black, "A beloved son of the all-loving, universal 
Father." America is infinitely better for the life of this illustrious poet. His first production was 
written at the age of eighteen years, and published by William Lloyd Garrison in his paper, 
the Free Press. He gave his life to his fellows, advocating political as well as other reforms. 
He was, as early as 1837, recognized throughout the country as a poet. In 1866 the publication 
of "Snow Bound" made him recognized as one of the great writers of American poetry. 
The great questions which had stirred the manly hearts of the nation had been settled by 
the close of the Civil War, and the poet could now give his life to the more esthetic produc- 
tions. He was a farmer lad, a manly altruist, a great poet who struck responsive chords in 
the great heart of humanity. 




THE VAUDOIS TEACHER. < 



,-tej LADY fair, these silks of mine are beautiful 

$S? and rare — 

The richest web of the Indian loom, which Beauty's 

self might wear; 
And those pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, 

with whose radiant light they vie ; 
I have brought them with me a weary way— will 

my gentle lady buy?" 



And the lady smiled on the worn old man, through 

the dark and clustering curls 
Which veiled her brow, as she bent to view his 

silks and glittering pearls; 
And she placed their price in the old man's hand, 

and lightly turned away, 
But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call — 

"My gentle lady, stay! 



"O lady fair, I have yet a gem which a purer 

luster flings 
Than the diamond flash of the jeweled crown on 

the lofty brow of kings — 
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue 

shall not decay, 
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a 

blessing on thy way !" 



The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her 

form of grace was seen, 
Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks 

waved their clasping pearls between. 
"Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou 

traveler gray and old — 
And name the price of thy precious gem, and my 

pages shall count thy gold." 



The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a 

small and meager book, 
Unchased with gold or diamond gem, from his 

folding robe he took ! 
"Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove 

as such to thee!. 
Nay— keep thy gold— I ask it not, for the word of 

God is free!" 



The hoary traveler went his way, but the gift he 
left behind 

Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high- 
born maiden's mind, 

And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the 
lowliness of truth, 

And given her human heart to God in its beautiful 
hour of youth! 



And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil faith had power, 
The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her bower; 
And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet untrod, 
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love of God ! 

John Greenleaf Whittiee. 



194 




To me thy clear proceeding brighter 
seems 

Than golden sands, that charm each shep- 
herd's gaze. 

How without guile thy bosom, all trans- 
parent 

As the pure crystal, lets the curious eye 



Thy secrets scan, thy smooth, round peb- 
bles count! 

How, without malice murmuring, glides 
the current! 

O sweet simplicity of days gone by ! 

Thou shun'st the haunts of man, to dwell 
in limpid fount ! 

Henry W. Longfellow. 



195 




(^^EHE might of one fair face sublimes my love, 
./ft For it hath weaned my heart from low desires; 
cr^ Nor death I beed, nor purgatorial fires. 

Thy beauty, antepast of joys above. 
Instructs me in the bliss that saints approve; 
For oh, how good, how beautiful, must be 
The God that made so good a thing as thee, 
So fair an image of the heavenly Dove! 



197 



Forgive me if I cannot turn away 
From those sweet eyes that are my earthly heaven, 
For they are guiding stars, benignly given 
To tempt my footstepsto the upward way; 
And if I dwell too fondly in thy sight, 
I live and love in God's peculiar light. 
Michael Angelo (Italian). 

1'ranslation of J. E. Taylor. 



THE RURAL HOME IN APRIL. 



c^mTEE, warbling thrush salutes the Spring 
J®* From ilka bush an' thorn, 
An' a' the aerial dwellers sing, 

To greet the April morn ; 
And gentle Phoebus throws his ray, 

Through ilka forest tree, 
As nature paints each budding spray, 

In tints to please the e'e. 








-J? 



And Ceres now begins her reign, 

Wi'in each verdant field, 
To glad our hearts wi' fruit an' grain, 

O' an abundant yield; 
And when is reaped the golden sheaves, 

That nature's law bestows, 
No more the happy rustic grieves, 

For his despondent woes. 



Behind his plow the happy swain, 

Hies merrily along, 
Without a calculating brain 

To e'er disturb his song; 
An' a' day long he turns the soil, 

Wi' hopes protective gain, 
At night fatigued wi' honest toil 

Plods homeward through the lane. 



198 



V 



He sits him down to rest an' wait — 

Wee prattler by his side — 
Nae cauld, faint-hearted, doubtless fate, 

His future to betide, 
But there wi'in his cottage door, 

Ah! happier than a king, 
He sits content to ponder o'er 

Bright pleasures' bubbling spring. . 

Nae frescoed palace meets his e'e, 

Nae dusty streets sae dim, 
A' towering nature's canopy, 

Seems but a hame to him, 
When daisies deck his fiel's alang, 

An' warblers in each reed 
Blend a' their notes in one sweet sang, 

His hame is heaven indeed. 

N. J. Clodfelteb, 




199 



THE SEA. 



FROM "CHILDE HAROLD." 




OLL on, thou deep 
and dark blue 
ocean, roll! 
Ten .thousand 
fleets sweep over 
thee in vain; 
Man marks the 
earth with ruin — 
his control 
Stops with the 
shore — upon the 
watery plain 
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage save his own, 

When, for a moment, like' a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined and un- 
known. 

His steps are not upon thy paths — thy fields 
Are not a spoil for him — thou dost arise 

And shake him from thee; the vile strength he 
wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 

And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray 
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 

His petty hope in some near port or bay, 

And dashest him again to earth — there let him lay. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls 
Of rock -built cities, bidding nations quake 

And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 

Of lord of thee and arbiter of war— 



These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar 
Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee; 

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? 
Thy waters washed them power while they were 
free, 

And many a tyrant since ; their shores obey 

The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou ; 

Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play, 
Time writes no wrinkles on thine azure brow; 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 

Calm or convulsed, in breeze, or gale, or storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark-heaving; boundless, endless and sublime, 

The image of Eternity, the throne 
Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime 

The monsters of the deep are made; each zone 

Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, 
alone. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean ! and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 

Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy 
I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight; and if the freshening sea 

Made them a terror, 'twas a pleasing fear; 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 

And trusted to thy billows far and near, 

And laid my hand upon thy mane— as I do here. 

Byron. 




200 




201 




OVE is a sickness full of woes, 

All remedies refusing; 
A plant that most with cutting grows, 
Most barren with best using. 
Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho! 

Love is a torment of the mind, 
A tempest everlasting; 
And Jove hath made it of a kind, 

Not well, nor full, nor fasting. 
Why so? 
More we enjoy it, more it dies; 
If not enjoyed, it sighing cries 
Heigh-ho! 

Samuel Daniel. 



202 




LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 



fHE birds, when winter shades the sky, 
Fly o'er the seas away, 
Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, 
And summer breezes play ; 

And thus the friends that flutter near 

While fortune's sun is warm, 
Are startled if a cloud appear, 

And fly before a storm. 



203 



But when from winter's howling plains 

Each other warbler's past, 
The little snowbird still remains, 

And chirrups midst the blast. 

Love, like that bird, when frendship's throng 

With fortune's sun depart, 
Still lingers with its cheerful song, 

And nestles on the heart. 

William Leggett. 




WISDOM UNAPPLIED 



c^F I were thou, O butterfly, 
To) And poised my wings to spy 

The sweetest flowers that live and die ; 



I would not waste my strength on those, 
As thou, for summer hath a close, 
And pansies bloom not in the snows. 

If I were thou, O working bee, 
And all that honey-gold I see 
Could delve from roses easily; 

I would not hive it at man's door, 
As thou, that heirdom of my store 
Should make him rich, and leave me poor. 

If I were thou, eagle proud, 

And screamed the thunder back aloud, 

And faced the lightning from the cloud; 

I would not build my eyrie-throne, 

As thou, upon a crumbling stone, 

Which the next storm may trample down. 



If I were thou, O gallant steed, 
With pawing hoof, and dancing head, 
And eye outrunning thine own speed; 

I would not meeken to the rein, 

As thou, nor smooth my nostril plain 

From the glad desert's snort and strain. 

If I were thou, red-breasted bird, 
With song at shut-up window heard, 
Like Love's sweet Yes too long deferred; 

I would not overstay delight, 

As thou, but take a swallow-flight, 

Till the new spring returned to sight. 

While yet I spake, a touch was laid 
Upon my brow, whose pride did fade 
As thus, methought, an angel said: 

"If I were thou who sing'st this song, 
Most wise for others, and most strong 
In seeing right while doing wrong; 



204 




I would not waste my cares and choose, 
As thou, to seek what thou must lose, 
Such gains as perish in the use. 

I would not work where none can win, 
As thou, half way 'twixt grief and sin, 
But look above and judge within. 



I would not let my pulse beat high, 
As thou, toward fame's regality, 
Nor yet in love's great jeopardy. 

I would not champ the hard, cold bit, 
As thou, of what the world thinks fit, 
But takes God's freedom using it. 




1 would not play earth's winter out, 

As thou, but gird my soul about, 

And live for life past death and doubt. 

Then sing, O singer! but allow 
Beast, fly and bird, called foolish now. 
Are wise (for all my scorn) as thou!" 

Elizabeth Babbett Bbowning. 



205 



WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 




OODMAN, spare that tree ! 

Touch not a single bough I 
In youth it shelter'd me, 

And I'll protect it now. 
'Twas my forefather's hand 

That placed it near his cot; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not ! 



That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o'er land and sea, 

And wouldst thou hew it down? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties ; 
Oh, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies ! 



When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade; 
In all their gushing joy 

Here, too, my sisters play'd. 
My mother kiss'd me here; 

My father press'd my hand- 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak, stand ! 



My heart-strings round thee cling, 

Close as thy bark, old friend ! 
Here shall the wild bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 
Old tree ! the storm still brave ! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I've a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 

George P. Morris. 



THE MOTH'S KISS, FIRST! 



FROM "IN A GONDOLA. : 



fHB Moth's kiss, first! 
Kiss me as if you made believe 
You were not sure this eve, 
How my face, your flower, had pursed 
Its petals up ; so, here and there 
You brush it, till I grow aware 
Who wants me, and wide open burst. 



The Bee's kiss, now! 

Kiss me as if you entered gay 

My heart at some noonday. 
A bud that dared not disallow 

The claim, so all is rendered up, 

And passively its shattered cup 
Over your head to sleep I bow. 

Rorert Browning. 




INDEX. 



A Ballad of Dreamland. Algernon Charles Swin- 
burne 85 

A Canadian Boat Song. Thomas Moore 174 

A Child's Thought of God. Elizabeth Barrett 

Browning 82 

A Farewell. Charles Kingsley 151 

A Farewell. Alfred Tennyson 120 

Ah! I yearn for tears all-burning. Heine's 

Book of Songs 175 

A Hope. Charles Kingsley 64 

All the trees with joy are shouting. Heine's 

Book of Songs 160 

All that I know of a certain star. Robert 

Browning 15 

Almond Blossom. Edwin Arnold 60 

Amy's Cruelty. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 68 

And a stranger, when he sees her. Elizabeth 

Barrett Browning 75 

Angling— (From "The Seasons"). James 

Thompson 182 

Answer to a Child's Question. Samuel Coleridge. 61 

A Parable. James Russell Lowell 100 

A poem every flower is. James Russell Loivell.. 139 

A Psalm of Life. Henry W. Longfellow 49 

Argument. Dante 147 

A Small Warbler. Samuel Willoughby Duffield.. 99 

A Summer Shower. Andrews Norton 192 

At Parting. Algernon Charles Swinburne 134 

Autumn. Thomas Hood 6 

Autumn. Percy By sshe Shelley 109 

A Vision of Beauty. Ben Jonson 62 

A Visit from St. Nicholas. Clement C. Moore... 132 
A Winter's Evening Hymn to My Fire. James 

Russell Loivell 18 

A Word to the Wise. Heine's Book of Songs 146 

Benedicite. John Greenleaf Whittier 29 

Beware — (From the German). Henry W.Long- 
fellow 186 

Bonnie Wee Thing. Robert Burns 35 

Bryant, William Cullen— Biographical Sketch.. 33 

Calm. Alfred Tennyson 157 

Child's Song. Algernon Charles Swinburne 88 

Come into the Garden, Maud. Alfred Tennyson.. 78 

Comin' Through the Rye. Robert Burns 76 

Cradle Song— (From "Bitter-sweet"). Josiah 

Gilbert Holland 30 

Cupid Swallowed. Leigh Hunt 36 

Daisy. William Wordsworth 119 

Dartside. Cliarles Kingsley 44 

Delia. Robert Burns 122 

Easter Week. Charles Kingsley 56 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 

Thomas Gray 106 

Emerson, Ralph Waldo— Biographical Sketch... 161 

Evangeline. Henry W. L,ong fellow 72 

Evening. Percy Bysshe Shelley 143 

Example. John Keble 59 



Flowers. Henry W. Longfellow 55 

Flowers. Thomas Hood 20 

For an Album. N. J. Clodfelter 104 

Fortunate. N. J. Clodfelter 169 

From the Spanish of Villegas. William Cullen 

Bryant 177 

Frosts are Slain and Flowers Begotten. Alger- 
non Charles Swinburne 40 

Genteel in personage. Henry Fielding 94 

Her Likeness. Dinah Maria Mulock 138 

Holmes, Oliver Wendell— Biographical Sketch. 97 

How cruel are the parents. Robert Burns 188 

Hymn to the Night. Henry W. Longfellow 114 

I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden. Percy 

Bysshe Shelley 58 

If it Be True that Any Beauteous Thing. 

Michael Angelo 170 

Inclusions. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 164 

In Memoriam. Alfred Tennyson. 80 

In the beauty of the lilies. Julia Ward Howe... 57 
Introduction, By Way of. Hazlitt Alva Cuppy. 3 

Jenny Kissed Me. Leigh Hunt 48 

Kissing's No Sin. Anonymous 144 

Lines. William Wordsworth 76 

Lines. William Wordsworth 154 

Lines by the Lakeside. George W. Doane 166 

Lohengrin. Algernon Charles Swinburne 150 

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth — Biographical 

Sketch 2 

Love. Fitz-Greene Halleck 151 

Love and Friendship. William Leggett 203 

Love is Sickness. Samuel Daniel 202 

Love Letters Made of Flowers. Leigh Hunt 51 

Love's Altar. James Russell Lowell 66 

Love-song. James Russell Lowell 105 

Love's Silence. Sir Philip Sidney 28 

Love thyself last. Edwin Arnold 74 

Lowell, James Russell — Biographical Sketch... 65 
Lullaby — (From "The Princess"). Alfred 

Tennyson 14 

Maidenhood. Henry W. Longfellow 121 

Maiden, that read'st this simple rhyme. Henry 

W. Longfellow 4 

Mary Morison. Robert Burns 124 

May Morning. Milton 20 

Meditative Poems. Schiller 172 

Meeting. Robert Browning 71 

Minnie and Winnie. Alfred Tennyson 84 

Music, when soft voices die. Percy Bysshe 

Shelley t 62 

My True-love Hath My Heart. Sir Philip Sidney 52 
Nature's Chain— (From "Essay on Man"). Pope 37 

Night. Percy Bysshe Shelley 6 

Ode on Solitude. Pope 131 

Ode to Tranquility. Samuel Taylor Coleridge... 89 
Oh, My Luve's Like'a Red, Red Rose. Robert 

Burns 23 



207 



INDEX— Continued. 



On Parting. Byron 80 

Perfection — (From "King John"). Shakspere... 116 
Peace in Acaclie — (From "Evangeline") Henry 

W. Longfellow 92 

Poor Mailie. Robert Burns 83 

Prelude to the Voices of the Night. Henry W. 

Longfelloiv 142 

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. Alfred 

Tennyson 130 

Seaweed. Henry W. Longfellow 90 

Seven Times One. Jean Ingelow 118 

She is Not Fair to Outward "View. Hartley 

Coleridge 116 

She Walks in Beauty. Byron 86 

She Was a Phantom of Delight. William Words- 
worth 103 

Sing Heigh-ho ! Charles Kingsley 16 

Something Childish, but Very Natural. Samuel 

Taylor Coleridge...., 171 

Song. William Cullen Bryant 170 

Song — (From the Spanish of Inglesias). William 

Cullen Bryant 164 

Sonnet— Midsummer. William Cullen Bryant... 184 

Sonnet — Mutation. William Cullen Bryant 155 

Sonnet of the River Otter. Samuel Taylor Cole- 
ridge 177 

Sonnets. Robert Southey , 95 

Spirits of the Storm. N. J. Clodfelter 10 

Stanzas. Oliver Wendell Holmes 98 

Sunrise on the Hills. Henry W. Longfellow 172 

Sweet Day. George Herbert 50 

Swell's Soliloquy. Anonymous 189 

Teach us, sprite or bird. Percy Bysshe Shelley... 41 

Tennyson, Alfred— Biographical Sketch 129 

Thanatopsis. William, Cullen Bryant 32 

The Angler's Wish. Isaak Walton 182 

The Ascension of Christ. William Drummond.. 9 
The bowers, whereat, in dreams, I see. Edgar 

Allan Poe 39 

The Brook— (From the Spanish). Henry W. 

Longfellow 195 

The Cataract of Lodore — (Described in rhyme 

for the nursery). Robert Southey 46 

The clouds are blackening. Samuel Taylor 

Coleridge 190 

The Daisy. William Wordsworth 12 

The Death of the Flowers. William Cullen 

Bryant 191 

The Dying Christian to His Soul. Pope 128 . 

The Fisherman. Charles Kingsley 27 

The Holly-tree. Robert Southey 67 

The Ivy Green. Charles Dickens 136 

The Kiss. Robert Herrick 189 

The Maid's Remonstrance. Thomas Campbell.. 155 

The May Queen. Alfred Tennyson 124 

The might of one fair face. Michael Angelo 197 

The Miller's Daughter. Alfred Tennyson 127 



The Moth's Kiss, First!— (From "In a Gon- 

■ dola"). Robert Browning ; 206 

The Night Bird. Charles Kingsley 114 

The Nightingale and Glow-worm. William 

Cowper 54 

The Noble Nature. Ben Jonson 25 

The Old Oaken Bucket. Samuel Woodworth 140 

The Parting. Andrews Norton 148 

The Rose— (From "The Lady of the Lake"). Sir 

Walter Scott 13 

The Rural Home in April. N. J. Clodfelter 198 

The Sea. Bernard Barton 196 

The Sea— (From "Childe Harold"). Byron 200 

The Snow-storm. Seba Smith 180 

The Song of the Unmarried. Fitz-Greene 

Halleck 110 

The Sparrow's Nest. William Wordsworth 115 

The Use of Flowers. Alary How ett 24 

The Vaudois Teacher. John Greenleaf Whittier. 194 
The Village Blacksmith. Henry W. Longfellow. 179 

The Winged Worshipers. Charles Sprague 136 

The World's Age. Charles Kingsley 112 

Thine Eyes Still Shined. Ralph Waldo Emerson. 178 

Time. Robert Herrick 5 

To a Butterfly. William Wordsiuorth 141 

To a Dead Tree. N. J. Frothingham 152 

To a Lady. Samuel Taylor Coleridge 158 

To a Mountain Daisy. Robert Burns 17 

To a Mouse. Robert Burns 38 

To a Spider. Robert Southey 42 

To a Waterfowl. William Cullen Bryant 34 

To be true to the best that is in us — (From 

"Geraldine") 156 

To Eva. Ralph Waldo Emerson 162 

To F s S. O d. Edgar Allan Poe 159 

To My Infant Son. Thomas Hood 168 

To My Mother. Edgar Allan Poe 43 

To the Fringed Gentian. William Cullen Bryant 96 
To the Highland Girl of Inversnaid. William 

Wordsworth 26 

To the River. Edgar Allan Poe 113 

Triads. Algernon Charles Sivmburne 70 

'Twas in the glorious month of May. Heine's 

Book of Songs 176 

Two Hearts. N. J. Clodfelter 146 

Valentine. Charles Kingsley 8 

When to the Sessions of Sweet, Silent Thought. 

Shakspere 44 

Which flower I love. Heine's Book of Songs 185 

Whittier, John Greenleaf — BiographicalSketch. 193 
Who Has Robbed the Ocean Cave? John Shaw. 158 

Willie Winkie. William Miller 84 

Winter. Robert Burns 101 

Wisdom Unapplied. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 204 
Woodman, Spare that Tree. George P. Morris. 206 

Woods in Winter. Henry W. Longfelloiv 21 

Written in March. William Wordsworth 149 



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